


The Force of Habit

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Dammit tags give too much away, Djinni & Genies, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Dean Winchester, Kissing, Marriage, Not an AU!, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dean Winchester, Parent Mary Winchester, Points of View, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Sick Dean Winchester, Smut, Switching Points of View, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Dean had a picture perfect marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ch.1

**Author's Note:**

> If you prefer listening to reading, the very generous @rainygalaxynerd is making recordings of this series available (.mp3 format) on her tumblr: <http://rainygalaxynerd.tumblr.com/tagged/force-of-habit>. We decided "Your Name" was too awkward and settled on the name Thea Ward for our reader.   
> Recording began early Dec 2016, and there were two parts up when I posted this note.  
> I'm still awed and floored about this and I think I always will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was originally posted on tumblr. There are a few prologues that were written after the story began and they will be added here in the order they were posted. They work pretty well scattered amongst the chapters, so look out for the titles as you read. :) Thanks for giving it a go!

“Mmmmmmhey gorgeous…”

“ _Dean_ , please don’t Hey-gorgeous me,” you sigh, pretending you’re not rolling your head back against his face.

His fingers squeeze your sides before sliding around your waist, and he bends his knees so he can curl himself against you, breathing in the scent of your hair.  It’s lovely - an intoxicating echo of this morning’s wake-up call - and almost makes you forget you’re wearing rubber gloves and elbow deep in a roasting pan and suds.  

“Mmm I don’t have a choice,” he mumbles and mashes a kiss into your hairline.

You sigh “God, sweetheart,” - he’s working his lips around to your ear, rolling his hips up into yours a little - “I just wanna clean up a bit before your mom gets here-”

“Why?” he moans, “Why do you choose such unimportant activities at these times?” Then he slides a hand between you and the benchtop, those strong mechanic’s fingers pressing over the fly of your jeans, tracing the seams and creases with a keen weight.

You hold onto the sink’s frame to push back on him a little and he surges forward in reply.  You drop your head and brace yourself against the sweet pressure of him right where he belongs.  “For fuck’s sake, Dean,” you sigh, “that’s not fair.”

“Being expected to leave you alone isn’t fair,” he counters.

“Yeah, you say that…” You’ve closed your eyes, and he’s starting to take up some solid room against your ass.  

You can’t believe how your body is reacting already.  You thought, maybe, after so much attention and sex, you’d be tired and tenderised.   _Risen to the challenge_ more like.  This kid-free night hasn’t been a minibreak as much as a kick-starter, reminding you both of how much potential there is in the rest of the house’s rooms and just how loud you can be.  And now, in the oh-so-versatile kitchen, your groin is buzzing, your face is warm and his breathing is getting heavier by the second, so you snap out of it before it goes too far.  

“Shit, come on, stop,” you tap him, “we can’t greet your mom like this,” and stand straight and sensible.  In consolation, you turn around to kiss him, which is a silly idea because he smears himself against you and demands something that steals your equilibrium.

“Goddam it,” you sigh.

“What?”

“Fifteen years and I still have no weapon against that kiss,” you breathe, and lean your forehead against him.

He rumbles a chuckle and sways you, saying “You are the weapon, gorgeous.  Thirty hours of you to myself, kissing you senseless just buys me a little time to think.”

You peel off your gloves and collect his face, pulling him in for another kiss and slide your fingers up his neck and into his hair.  He moans encouragingly, holds you, pulls you into him, and sighs-

“Hellooo!”

-and stops.  

Anna and young John barrel in, ignoring how you step away from each other, and start talking at once.

“Hey Mom!” Anna runs into your waist for a hug.

“Hey gorgeous,” you reply, and let Dean’s hand slip from yours as he heads for the lounge room (buying a bit of time to…. uh, deflate) saying “Hey guys” as he goes.

“Hey Dad!” John doesn’t worry about affectionate greetings: “Mom! Grandad said we could have his fit ball!” he announces.  

You look at the massive blue thing in his arms, saying “Apparently.”

“Can we take it on the trampoline?”

“Uuuuuuh that,” you try to imagine all the ways that can go wrong. “Okay, that may be a lesson very soon, but _one at a time_ , okay?”

“Yesssss,” he runs off, Anna close behind him calling “You get one minute, then it’s my turn-”

You head down to the front door where Mary is waiting.  “Hi! Why didn’t you come in?” you ask.

“We came straight from the farmer’s market and I haven’t got a change of shoes,” she explains and you peck each other on the cheek for a quick hug.  

“Since when did your John have a flipping fit ball?” you wonder.

“Ha! Jess gave it to him for Christmas,” she explains. “Wishful thinking. You two have a good time?”

“Yep!” you reply, “Just took it easy and spent some time.”  That’s the moment Dean walks up, giving Mary a quick kiss before she pulls back to look at him.  

You can tell, from the tilt of her eyebrows and the crooked, affectionate smile, she knows what’s up: Dean’s still pretty rosy.  “Really? Didn’t feel like going out?” she stirs.

You look at Dean, pulling your lips between your teeth while you hope he’ll field this one.  You looked down at your shoes, and notice your t-shirt, quietly adjusting it back to centre.

Dean clears his throat, holds a breath, while he tries to think of something to cover… “Sooo, Benny’s in the car?”

“Nice,” you nod.  Mary giggles, patting him on the chest while he mutters “Can’t believe my own mother giving me grief about enjoying time with my wife-” and you both laugh at his embarrassment.

“Oh honey, it’s too easy,” she beams. “Benny-boy fell asleep on the way.  Let me go get him,” she insists and you both wait in the foyer while she collects the car capsule.

“You do look like you just finished a Harlequin paperback,” you tell him and collect one of his shirt buttons like you do when you’ve thought of something.  “Hey, remind me to search trampolines and fitballs.”

“Two projectiles in a bouncy bowl?”

“Shit, dammit-” you groan.

“S’ok, I’ll check on them.  He woulda done it even if we’d said no,” he smirks. “Just-” and then his face drops in worry.  His eyes flick to yours, almost afraid, then glance around the room in urgency.  He grabs your hand hard enough to hurt, and says your name with a sternness, a gruff force you’ve never heard before. You’re reaching for him to help, support, listen, when his eyes close and he drops to the ground.

“Dean?!” You’re beside him already holding his face, then shaking it gently.  “Dean?  Dean!”  He doesn’t respond to you shoving his chest, or feeling his pulse or pulling open his eyelids.  You don’t even know what you’re looking for - some sort of reaction - but there’s nothing.   _“Mary!”_ you call, your voice harsh and scared.  

You bend over and put your ear to his mouth, trying to hear or feel a breath, but there’s stillness, you think.  Your nurse training seems to have failed you in panic.  You rest your ear on his chest and listen.  It’s so warm, and his smell is right there, but you can’t hear a thing.  You wait another few seconds.

 _Nothing_.

In panic and fear you sit up screaming _“Dean!”_ that close to thumping his ribcage and you can feel your face warp because you don’t know what to do.  You stand, lunging for your bag with the phone inside, one hand stretched out toward him, as if you can reassure.  You’re not sobbing yet, but you’re stabbing at the digits to call emergency and call Mary’s name again screaming _“Where are you?!”_

Then you notice your body go cold.  Your vision seems to tunnel, but not like you’re blacking out.  The edges of the room change shape, dark shadows and objects beginning to reveal themselves around you, edges and pulling depths.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

You land by Dean again, one knee at a time, cupping his jaw and feeling your stomach roll at the cooling slackness of his face, now the only thing you can see.

“My husband-” you blink, fighting off the enveloping black, there are hands on your arms and somehow you feel grabbed, held, lifted. (“Ma'am? Can you tell me your emergency?”)  The phone doesn’t feel there any more.  You close your eyes and there’s the sensation of dropping. “Dean.”

You don’t land on anything.  You feel heavy, cold and sick.  And there are hands.


	2. Ch.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Had_ the perfect marriage.

You open your eyes and see knees. Yours and Dean’s, on cold dark concrete. Your shoulders bunch around your ears, upper arms viced by large, hot grips, and you reach up to feel his hand cupping your jaw, keeping your head from lolling on your chest and pressing on a pain in your neck.

“Y/N!” You hear. It feels like an echo but, no, it’s proper repetition. “Y/N? Y/N, come on baby, wake up for me!”

“Dean,” you hear a familiar voice, quite close, “Do you know-”

“Y/N!” Dean’s tone changes. He must see you coming around and you look up at him properly hearing “That’s it sweetheart, hey-”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam repeats, like he’s reminding him of a secret and grabs his sleeve.

Dean shakes it off, wrenching his arm away so he can scoop it under yours for a hug.

“Dean!” you rasp, “oh my god!” And pull him close. “Oh god babe are you ok?”

“Yeah I’m fine,” he says steadily.

“Christ you just collapsed in front of me!” You gasp, blinking over his shoulder. “It was terrible!  Are you sure you’re all right?” You lean back to look at him better, grabbing his face.

“I’m good,” he says. But he doesn’t look good, not by a long shot.  He sees you notice things - the lines and dirt - but more than that. He’s different. You feel different. You place a hand over his jaw, thumbing the cheek, and he lets you look at him and wonder and worry.  Your shoulders and ribs ache, you detect an unparalleled layer of filth on you, and you feel weak, thin inside and out. What you would give for some food and drink.

“What happened?” you ask, glancing around at the room, squinting to adjust. “God everything feels like it’s moving.”

Dean seems to pause, and leans back from you a little.  “Yeah, that’ll take a while,” he assures. His tone has changed now too, to something hesitant, or sorry.

“Shit! It’s nighttime! Who’s got the kids?!” You grab at him, your chest queasy with distress, and he pauses again.

“They're… You don’t have to worry about them,” he says slowly, smiling weakly.

“So Mary’s got them?”

“Yeah, Mom’s got’em,” Dean agrees but it doesn’t do much to ease your ache and you rub your knuckles on your chest, feeling that primal need to see that they’re okay.

“Jesus,” Sam breathes beside you, and runs his hands through his hair.

“Okay… and Sam, holy shit,” you grab his arm, “what are you doing here?”

He glances at Dean, saying “I uh… I came to help find you” and flashes a smile.

“Thank you,” you squeeze what you hold then reach up for a slow, stiff hug, the pain flashing on your neck, beneath your ear. You feel like your arms might just snap off at the joint.  He obliges haltingly and you add “God it’s been a while.”

“Sure has… Y/N,” and pulls back to abruptly stand. He looks different too. Searching for you must’ve been rough and, judging from the growth on Dean, taken at least 4-5 days. You wonder why Sam didn’t ask for help.

“Where the hell are we?” you ask, blinking still as you look around and will the objects to stop pranking you. “Where are these clothes from?”

Dean rocks back to rest on his feet and squat, saying “You’re all about the questions hey.”

“But what happ-”

“Look, Y/N we actually can’t stay here much longer. You think you’re okay to walk?”

“Yeah, I’ll manage,” you mumble and start to wonder what’s happened to make Dean’s voice go so low.  He helps to get you up and you grab his shirt sleeve to stop him turning away. “Hey seriously, where are the kids? Benny’s missed, like, three or four feeds and my stash was up used last night. He gets sick with too much formula-”

Dean looks at you for a moment.  “Uh… Do you feel full?”  He seems so uncomfortable, which is new.

Sam turns away, collecting some things, and you put a hand to your breast, and then both, frowning to look down at your decidedly un-engorged bust. They should, by rights, be painful and leaking by now. Instead they look like they did back in your 20s. “What’s going on?” you mutter. You feel a bit pale and look to Dean for help.

“You need to try and remember things,” he says gently. “Have you got your wallet?”

You find it in your back pocket, fuzzy fingers operating alone. It’s not your fat, ready-to-evacuate purse but your folded wallet from… before.

You open it and find cards and cash. Your ID says Y/N L/N. You pull it out and flip it over. “What’s going on?” you say again. “What’s this?”

“When was the last time you used your credit card?” Dean prompts you.

You pull that out, too, staring at your maiden name and try to explain it, place it in your memories. A jarring flash comes to you of this card in your hand while you’re at a laptop in a slightly different house, ordering something off a website. It feels recent.

“Dean?” You ask again, feeling rather thick and numb around your throat.

“Yeah- hey! Woah!”

Again, there are his hands, and you don’t land on anything.

…

Sam helps Dean get a passed-out you on the back seat of the car. He watches how tenderly Dean moves you, the way he angles himself in alignment, and catches a whispered “There y’go sweetheart” as you’re tucked under a blanket.

“I’ll drive, you rest,” Sam tells him.

“Yeah ok.”  Dean peeks over to the back seat several times as he nods off. His sleep is deep and when they pull up to your house - the address gleaned from your ID - Sam does his best to wake him gently.  He still gets an odd start.

“MmBenny-” Dean blinks himself upright and stares at the dash a second, then down at himself, grabbing his jacket.

“You want me to wake Y/N?” Sam asks. “It’s only been 40 minutes.”

“No, let me,” he grunts, righting himself.

“Dean you should probably distance yourself a little…” - Dean doesn’t want to hear it - “…from whatever you guys were.”

Even as he sits there in the passenger seat of his own car, with his not-wife sleeping in the back seat, his sleep-blurred brain mashes up the dreamed and present feelings.  He’s snappy at Sam because Sam doesn’t know what he’s been through, and partly because he didn’t visit much while Dean was married.  Not married.  And now Sam doesn’t like it even in real life.   _Maybe if he’d visited more- What? Fuck._

“Married,” Dean says.

Sam double takes.  “Really?”

“Picket fence, two jobs, three kids, the whole nine,” Dean rubs his face with both hands. “Mom up the street doing the babysitting.”

“What, _Mom_ mom?”

“Yeah…” Dean rubs his face, wishing he could explain. “Man, they were some awesome kids…  Our John was ten,” he starts slowly, “he’s growing into Dad all over, then Anna is so much like you, always got her eye on me.  And Benny’s just started scaling the furniture… cute as a bug’s ear, just like his mom but squishy. And fuckin stealthy too-”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sam asks, genuinely curious.

“… It’s been awhile since we talked and… ” Sam watches Dean pull out his phone for distraction.  “I dunno, it’s just- that’s what we’ve been-  that’s what we’re doing,” he shrugs in defence and hears himself thinking _I tell everyone about my kids._ “They…” he falters, “they’re-”

“They were,” Sam says. “They _were_ , and even then-” Sam thinks for a while, trying to string together whatever Dean needs to hear to get past this. “You just gotta remember that that wasn’t you.”

Dean looks at him. “Yeah, it was-”

“No Dean, in a different world you’re a different person, not you,” Sam argues trying to help his brother cut away from the dream.

But Dean is annoyed.  “I was me, Sam, bones and all.  I cried with her, we fought, we were happy,-”

“C’mon man you can’t do this,” Sam implores turning in his seat.  “You know better.”

Dean sighs and slumps, watches his thumb habitually rub at the crease where his wedding band was.  He recalls how a love letter from her almost became their wedding vows.  Or didn’t.  “Yeah… I know.”  He wonders if she’d write it now.

Dean talks the talk, but Sam knows his brother and sags like he lost.

“I’m gonna let her rest a bit more,” Dean says, voice lighter than the rest of him.  “She’ll be comfortable there.”

Sam gives up for the moment and lets him be.  Dean settles in and slips into sleep hoping he’ll have fallen out of fake love by the time he wakes.


	3. Ch.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is it that you have now?

People aren’t kidding when they call them family ties.

You know, roughly, where your family is, all the time.  The ones you see every day, they tell you when they’re going somewhere important.  And family in far away places tell you if they’re going somewhere else far away.  It’s all proportionate, rebellion and severance notwithstanding.  The closer they are to you, the shorter the trigger distance for contact.  Everyone has a sort of tether, if they’re lucky.

So when Dean wakes in the front seat and finds you’re not the in back, and nowhere else sight, his system surges.  He bursts from the car, stumbling out and only just coming upright as he pushes through the front door.  Sam is sitting at the counter of your kitchen, coffee in hand.

“She okay?” Dean asks blindly, reflexively. “Does she know?”

“Yeah she knows. She took it in okay.  A bit dazed, but she gets it,” Sam reports.  “She’s sleeping. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Right,” Dean nods and sucks in a deep breath.  Rubbing his eyes and stepping to the counter, he steadies himself and sees the mug tree, the clock, the coffee & tea canisters… “It’s like this,” he murmurs.

“What, your house?” Sam asks, wishing he didn’t have to.

“Yeah, some of it was like our - Mom’s place - but a lot of this was there,” he describes, turning to see what else he recognises - the couches, some of the fridge magnets.

“I don’t -” Sam shifts in his seat a little.  “No offence Dean, but I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean turns to him, looking for some sort of empathy.  “I know it wasn’t real, and there are gaps, it’s just I remember so much.  The dating, the wedding, births, you graduating, Mom and Dad being so proud of you, our kids getting bigger, my head is just swimming in it…  15 years man.”

“ _Fif_ \-  …Christ.” Sam breathes and has to concede that that’s rough, and it’s fair enough to want to debrief but… “It’s not that it’s not interesting, or nice… I just don’t think you should be talking about it.  It’ll just reinforce a fantasy.”

“…Right.  Yeah.”  Dean rubs his face again and heads for the couch.  “I’m gonna sleep some more.”

“Good idea,” Sam agrees.

Dean rolls himself out on the cushions, pulling his favourite one under his head and draping the throw across his hips.  With a taste of defiance and escapism, he recounts this morning’s- the last morning’s scene in his mind, and plays out to himself what could’ve happened if the kids hadn’t come home till lunch.

* * *

It’s strangely familiar seeming Sam like this. He’s hunched over the counter while you make some food, leaning on his elbows as he looks from a journal to his notes and a map. His intense thought and focused eyes are just as they’d been before, but they’re now over your local town and possible djinn locations, instead of a case for court.

Occasionally his gaze jumps down, as if he’s been caught looking at you, and it’s making you uncomfortable. It gets too much after a while, so you invite him to chat. “So did you ever go to Stanford?” you ask quietly, not wanting to wake Dean on the couch.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, matching your volume. “But I didn’t stay.  This job pulled me away.”

“Oh that must’ve been hard. You enjoyed it so much,” you say amiably and start on some coffee.

“Uh, yeah, _enjoyed_ ,” Sam looks at you, kind of shrugging his mouth. “Past tense, Y/N, and it wasn’t real, so.”

“Well yeah and no,” you shrug back.

“It wasn’t real,” Sam repeats. “You weren’t actually married to my brother.”

 _Wow, he gets pointy real quick._ “No I wasn’t,” you agree. “I’m pretty clear on that, Sam. But we did say some pretty awesome vows,” you smile at him, trying to make light.

“Y/N, that didn’t happen either,” he lowers his pen, giving you his full attention. “It’s really important that you realise that.”

You’re hardly qualified to talk about philosophy but you also feel like he doesn’t care to consider your point of view at all, which is a bit shit.  “How do you know?” you shrug, feeling childish and petulant, even though your tone is light.  

“I’m sorry?”

“How do you know we didn’t say those things to each other?” You’re facing him now across the counter.  Dean’s coffee is in your hands as you talk in hushes about your unreal experience. “I mean, we didn’t walk down an aisle, or have anyone witness it, but how do you know our minds didn’t say those things to each other? That it wasn’t based on anything?”

He stares at you for a minute, weighing it up. He’s tempted to be a proper asshole, say harsh things that make you want to break away from them both, but he’s not that guy and he knows you know it. “If a tree marries in the forest and all that,” he suggests.

“Yeah,” you say. “I mean, how many exchanges have you not witnessed that definitely happened?”

“You didn’t witness it either,” he reminds steadily. “No one did. Not really.”

You’re getting a bit tired of the word _real_ and all its rules and permutations.

You hum in hedged agreement, smile a little, and change the subject. “So was there ever a Jess?”

Sam sits up straighter and blinks, his chemistry changing. It takes him a moment but he answers “Yes… Yeah, but she’s gone now.”

“Okay,” you tread gently in response.

You’d think it’d be curiosity that got the better of him, but when he asks it’s more like an interview question than an indulgence. “Where was I, in that world?”

“You and Jess stayed at Stanford,” you explain. “You didn’t visit much. Although Dean still talked about you like you’d saved the world.”

Sam frowns for half a second and you wonder too, about why it would be that he was so absent.  They seem like an old couple here and now.

Dean stirs on the couch and you break away with his coffee. You come around the arm rest and glance at Sam to check he’s not watching you because suddenly you need a minute. Dean’s on his belly, arm draping onto the floor, drool patch on the pillow, but he’s right there, where you’ve found him a hundred times before and just so… big.

He’s a big guy, bigger than you remember, and all the features you’ve so lovingly mapped now frighten and tempt you.  Your memory replays him as around you, over you, but the focus is in patches and sensations that seem more and more like reconstructions.  The thickness of his fingers, the curving distance from shoulder to thigh, the breadth of him, his long and, frankly, huge legs, all of it seems to have burst from your brain and into your space.

Coming to sit on the coffee table, you find comfort in the detail - eyelashes, freckles, lip creases - because you know those elements up close. You don’t know how you know them, but you do. And it takes all your composure to not reach out and and run your thumb over them, to feel his warmth, for real, palm to cheek, breath on your wrist, that human-perfect temperature that was just for you. 

And then there’s the tone of him. His voice has a texture to it here, like it’s been dragged behind a horse, and it has a timbre you only heard in his most wanting moments, when he was done being teased by that dress, or when you finally got him to beg. While he’s sleeping though, he’s just as he was, just a little more roughed up.

You look at the leather strap of his watch, the scarred knuckles loose on the pillow above his head, his kick-and-spike couch hair, the purpose built musculature that _someone’s_ memory didn’t do justice.  You put it all together and chew on your lip at the knowledge that hits you queasy: Dean is far and away more attractive in person than you ever imagined.

He wakes to your voice saying his name, but doesn’t surface till you gently prod his shoulder.  You don’t know how much he wants you to touch him.

He opens his eyes to the sight of your hands around a mug, and as he sits up he mindlessly mumbles “Oh thanks sweetheart”, then drops his head into his palms.

You perch on the coffee table before him, watching a series of stressful gestures. He did these things when Anna got that terrible delirious fever after she started school, right before he piled her into the car for the ER. It makes your stomach twist to see it.

“Sorry,” he says, “I’ll try to stay on top of that.”

Dean looks down at your hold on the coffee, the way your grip fights itself like you’re trying to bend the handle off.  It’s your _This will keep me occupied while I don’t freak out_ stance.  Every muscle is rigid.  

He reaches his hand out a little, saying “Hey, it’s okay… I just forgot where I was”, but his tone is that pathetic, that non-committal, that you feel dread wash down your neck.  You can feel him trying to distance himself, and it’s strange and awful.

So, to give him what he seems to want, you turn the mug so he can take the handle without touching; no accompanying kiss.

“Sam filled you in,” he half asks.

“Yeah, sorta,” you say, directing your gaze to his hands so you don’t have to look at how he won’t look at you.  “We were taken by a djinn, apparently.  And we were, uh, touched? At the same time.  He thinks.”

“Yeah, I can’t remember how, but I remember following him when he was following you,” he sips. “I’m sorry, Y/N, I must’ve gotten us both caught.”

You frown at him, slightly annoyed.  “What makes you think you made that happen?”

“Well, I didn’t protect you, obviously.  That was the main aim.”

“Maybe it happened because you were protecting me.”

“Which I still stuffed up, _obviously_ because here we are.”

“Since when are you such a martyr?” you scowl at him.

“Since always,” says Sam, meaning to simply clarify but coming across like a salty step-son.

“Well it’s new to me, and stupid,” you tell him, and stand to head to the counter.  

Sam scoffs, feeling confirmed about this djinn-dream being full of bizarro-Dean.  He’s suddenly curious to ask if you seriously haven’t met that classic Winchester trait at all until-

“Actually, you did that with the roof, on the ladder,” you recall, pottering around the kitchen.

Dean groans, getting off the couch.  “That _was_ my fault.  I should’ve gone down first and I would’ve broken his fall-”

“He was 9 years old - he can climb a ladder! And he went sideways anyway.  If we’d put down a mattress, _maybe_ -”

“Guys!” Sam cuts it off and looks meaningfully at Dean.  “Let’s stick with reality, okay?”

You bite your tongue, slapping a scorching glare at the back of Sam’s head.  Dean feels the weather change and clears his throat.  “Sam, you mind giving us a minute?”

“Kinda, to be honest, but I will,” he says, standing.  “Y/N can I use your bathroom to clean up a bit?”

“Of course Sam.  What’s mine is yours.”

He pinches a smile and leaves in silence.

“I can’t begin to explain how much I _don’t_ like the suggestion that our John isn’t real,” you say quietly.

“Mmm,” Dean says, sitting on the stool.

“Makes my fucken blood boil, to be honest,” you grind out.

Dean chews his lip and keeps quiet because he’s feeling the same way.  He likes your Momma Bear voice, and he likes the alliance.  Craves it, actually.

You sigh heavily, “It just feels like we’re in a different time zone.”

“Huh, yeah,” he looks into his coffee, trying not to think of the day’s worth of Dad-routines he’s missed. Not ‘missed’; remembers.

Likewise, you’ve not yet managed to shake off the clawing urge to cuddle something heavy, clingy and soft in place of Benny.  That instinct to nurture and sustain him is particularly hard to drop and you’re not looking forward to being left alone.  

This is something that’s crossed Dean’s mind too, mostly in the form of warmly rose-stained scenes of you gazing at his baby boy while nursing.  With John he remembers the fuzzy romance of first-time parenting.  With Anna it was hard - she was colicky and John was a rambunctious toddler.  Those were the days you fought the most.  But when Benny arrived the older two were helpful and it was all familiar and just… he _enjoyed_ dadding Benny, and having you as a new mom again.  He’s used to thinking of you both as a unit, happily tethered to each other, so missing him means missing you, in a way, and it makes him uneasy.  And if it’s hard for him, it’s got to be gut wrenching for you.  You seemed so happy in those moments, even when it was taxing, and reality is so white and grey.  And lonely.

You come to the end of the counter, to his side, and look at all the ways he’s not touching you.  Not turning himself toward you, no hand on your thigh to draw you closer, and no eye contact.  You look over his hair and the scruff saying “There’s no shaving stuff for you here.”

“Yeah I’m not even sure that what’s at that motel will do it,” he wonders, raking his fingernails through the coarseness.  

You want to do that too.  You want _touch_.  And, finally, pretending the history you have doesn’t count or never existed, is too hard.  It’s only been hours but you want your friend back, let alone your husband.  “I miss them,” you say quietly.  “Between the day they were away and then this… it’s like I have two brains and one of them is near panic over where the fuck my children are.”  

Dean looks at you then, your eyes darting over the counter, and then he’s trapped by your imploring gaze when you ask “Don’t you miss them?”

“Yeah,” he confesses, “y- yeah, I do.” managing to stifle the endearments that once appeared like punctuation.  He turns toward you a little, giving in to your connection.

“I just feel like,” you search around for the idea with your hands and let the loss show in your face, beginning to plead with him, “if they’d lived and died and all we had were memories - how is that different?”  

Dean catches your hand in the air, and the contact makes you snatch your mouth closed in hope.  

“Y/N, you gotta stop thinking like that.” His voice is finally kind.  You pull in a shaky breath and wordlessly beg him to say he agrees.  Instead he says what he should say, all wooden in his duty.  “Y/N, just… of course you love them and miss them; you created perfect children.”

You flinch at the word ‘perfect’ - makes it all seem so _fake_.   

“We created,” you correct him.

“Yeah, okay, but look, where are your stretch marks? Where are the photos?”

 _Lots of people have neither of those and their children still happened,_ you think.

He reads your defiant face and firmly adds “Trust me, I feel sick whenever I think of them because they’re not in the room and I want to see they’re okay but Y/N, they’re not in any room.  You hear me? They don’t exist and they never did.”

You reel from his bluntness, and pull on his hand to keep from leaning back.  You thought he’d sympathise more and you blink at him, all but saying _You’re supposed to hug me now_. But he clenches his jaw because he can’t, he shouldn’t, and you have yet to see how strong Dean’s martyrdom can be.

He lets your hand go and the blood rushes back to your tingling fingertips. He looks at the pile of letters, your phone, your life before him and suddenly feels out of place and embarrassed. “We should head back to the motel,” he says.

“What should I bring?”

“No, just me and Sam. You’ve got stuff to figure out here and we have to find that djinn,” he explains. “We’ll come back this afternoon, maybe after dinner. Shit, you need to think of a story too, for the police.  Did Sam-”

“No one reported it,” you say.

“What?” Dean snaps. “How did that not happen?”

“I work two casual jobs, no one raised the alarm… And I don’t really have a non-work bestie to notice,” you explain. It’s a pretty shit predicament.

Dean frowns with more energy than he’s shown yet and sits straight. “That’s fucked up.”

“You’re telling me,” you agree.  “I’ve got a fucking boyfriend!”

 _“What?!”_ he says, biting out the word. “… _Who?”_

“Stuart. It’s not the most attentive relationship,” you admit.

“Fucking, you’re missin’ nearly a week and he doesn’t notice?”

“Pretty much. We’re suppose to have a date tonight but I’m not sure I’m up for it,” you lean on the counter and think of what you’ll say, trying to get out from under Dean’s dark glare.

“Yeah I think you should skip it,” he says then gets up from the stool. “Wait, is that the same Stuart you dumped because he wouldn’t introduce you to his parents after all those months?”

In the dream, that was the night you met Dean - someone good enough to make you break away, and you’d done so there and then. In real life, that night happened without Dean to save you, 15 actual years ago.

“Yeah, that’s him,” you confirm.

Dean scowls harder and turns away to hide it.  You know those shoulders though and inwardly delight in his annoyance, hope for his jealousy.

“Cancel dinner,” he repeats. “You should rest.”


	4. Ch.0.96

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have the house to yourselves.  
> Set in the last day of the djinn dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prologue drabble was born out of a 5min challenge on tumblr. Part of the challenge is no rereading or editing for 5mins, so the first part may be a bit rough.

“Honeeey!” Dean called, closing the front door behind him as he grinned, “I’m hooome!”

“Good timing!”

Dean followed your voice to the dining room and stood in the doorway.  There you were leaning over the table to light a few candles, hot plates laden with pulled pork burgers and roast vegetables.  He looked through the door to the kitchen and spied pecan pie in the oven.

“Sonofa-” he breathed.  This was not what he expected.  “I was gone for, like, half an hour!”

“Fifty minutes babe,” you correct him.  “And that pork’s been on all day.”

“Damn,” he sighs, stepping over to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you in for a thankful kiss, “Damn damn damn damn,” he mumbles against you.  “I forgot.”

“What were you expecting to find?”

“Dunno,” he says, kissing into your neck. “Pizza on its way?”

“Ha, no sweetheart,” you scoff, “our first night alone since Benny was born? No. Not pizza.”

Dean sighed and genuinely wondered if this is better or worse than what he’d had planned.  What he’d had planned could wait.

You ate and talked.  It was that simple.  Eating with both hands and talking without interruption - except to correct each other and collect a tissue for the laughing tears - was as much an indulgence as anything found on earth.  It had been months, possibly years, since you’d be able to have those two things at the same time, with just each other.

You tried to sit straight and keep your elbows off the table, look at least a _little_ elegant, and thought maybe Dean would do the same, but instead he leaned and grinned and watched.  Watched you.

Not that you didn’t do your fair share of looking too.  He’d bite into his burger and stare at it while he chewed, like his entire sensory system was taken up with just flavour and fragrance and texture and strands of tender pork and everything else could wait a few minutes, sighing over the things you give him.

When the plates were empty, the two of you cleared the meal, continuing your conversation all the way to the sink and then still while you pulled out the pie and he got the plates. As you dished it up he tucked himself in behind you, swayed a little and hummed at the fragrance.  You took your plate and he took his and kept you tight against his belly as he walked you both back to the table, sat you on his legs as he took his seat, chatting smugly, and making obscene noises over his food while he ate his dessert with his wife in his lap.

He finished first, taking your fork and feeding you the last of your pie so you’d be done already. 

“That was some perfect pie,” he said, turning you sideways so he could run his hand up the outside of your thigh, squeeze your waist.

“Yeah? I feel like my piece was rather small,” you smiled.  “It was gone so quickly.”

Dean just hummed again, sliding his hand up to your hip, squeezing sharply as he leaned up for you, eyes fixed on your mouth before making contact.  His hand crept up, pausing at your waist with the other.  

You broke the kiss so you could stand and swing a leg over.  He watched his hand slide up your thigh as you did, greedily grinning at you leaning over him.  He trickled his fingers up your ribs.

“You wore this shirt on purpose didn’t you?”

“Kinda,” you said.

He reached up inside the crisp whiteness and undid the top button from inside, looking at his hands on you, fingertips dragging down the slope of your bust. You trickled your fingers over his hair and enjoyed him enjoying you. 

“Can I just tell you how good it is to be doing this in a well lit room?” he murmured.

“And not dim and dark so we don’t wake Benny?”

“Yeah, poor little feller,” he said, undoing the next button and leaning in.  “All that huffing and puffing.”

“He’s lucky that’s all it is,” you said, rolling your hips against him.

“Mmmm do that again,” he groaned, getting his hands back to your bones and working you against himself.

He leaned up again, tilting his head to kiss you and you held him, the heels of your hands on his jaw, bunching your shoulders to kiss him tight and thankfully.

“Gonna have to teach you how to make those noises all over again,” he said, talking against your mouth.  His fingers slipped to the front of your jeans and started undoing.

“I remember,” you said, pulse skipping and nerves awakening.  “I hear them in my head every time you get inside me,” -his fingertips slid down your lower belly- “and think of how much I miss yours- ah!”

“Ohgod,” he nuzzled you.  “I’ve missed this.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, high and frowning.  His longest fingers slipped into your wetness, finding heat and tightness behind the denim. He angled his arm and stretched his wrist to reach and keep you close.

“Can we just-” you hook your thumbs into the waist band and stand a little, meaning to get them off, but he snaps you to him, your effort having given him a few more inches which is enough to do what he wants.

He rubs in circles, avoiding the bud, and you grab onto him again, tilting his head so you can reach his mouth gasping “Oh! oh shit! Dean!”

He dipped his fingers in and slid them back again, slicking the contours and tripping the peak, and your fingertips scritched on his scalp and neck.  “Do you remember, when we came back from Sam’s, uh, musta been when we met lil’ Mary? John went home with Mom and Dad and we stopped at that crappy motel for a night?”

“Yeah,” you managed.  “Yeah, I remeh-ah! Ahuh!”

“I bet we can beat that,” he said, quickening his rhythm, flicking lightly for a moment, roping you still with his other arm.  

“You think- ohshit- what- what was it? Fingers,… tongue… and cock,” you said, voice tremoring like he’s playing on your vocal chords.

Dean kissed you deep, listening to your breath push and pull through your nose while he made you want to gasp, you grabbing at him with your hands and knees.

“I got you something-”

“Ohgod Dean, please,” you gasped, starting to pull on him for mercy.

“Ask me what I got you.”

“Whadyougetme?”

“A vibrator,” he said, diving into your neck and rubbing back and forth, building pressure.  “So I can watch the woman I love come undone.”

“Uh! Jesus!” you curled against his hold, “Fuck!”  Then he pressed harder still and you jolted with it. “ _That!”_ you panted as all your flesh started to vibrate and flash hot.  Dean reached for the back of your head, tilting your face to the ceiling and stabbing his tongue into the patch just outside your ear as he flicked light a few times then pressed hard, and you yelled, jaw slack and fingers tight as the waves of it surged across your body.

Dean listened, with dedication, and smiled at your sighing and surprise, the way you sounded so deliciously achy afterward, and all the energy you used to rub hands and thighs and belly over him in the aftermath.  He liked listening to you in these moments before you could talk. 

“Sweet Jesus Dean…  I love you… so much.”

“I love you too baby,” he said, wrapping his big arms around you and leaning back for the kiss.  “You’re perfect.”


	5. Ch.4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your life is a shambles. Do you have it in you to make it better?

You sit at the counter, head in your hands and stare at your things.  Phone, wallet, car keys… pretty much all you’d bother taking were Dean to ask you to leave with him.  It feels like everything else can get fucked.  

In an effort to find reality, you call your sister who is still in Portland with a bank balance that bounces off zero each fortnight.  Half an hour of conversation is 20 minutes more than you’re fit for, especially when her first question is if you’ve got any spare cash.  You wonder what happened these last few years, how your conversations became so dot-pointed.   _If I went out to Oregon, would you even want me to visit…?_

Calling Stuart does nothing.  Literally, nothing about you is moved by him or cares what he thinks.  He’s now just the guy you’ve known longer than the rest.  Whatever substance or benefit he had before has been sucked into the distance by Dean’s towering quality, real or otherwise.  You can barely face how many years you’ve wasted on him.  Early on, when he said _Stay with me, don’t travel, you hate big cities anyway, the people there are so heartless_ and cuddled and snuggled you down, you’d felt so complimented, so lucky, because he wasn’t bad. And now you’re disgusted with yourself and feel your embarrassment deeply.

Part of it was, you guess, because your parents died in your late 20s, in a car accident, right when you’d started thinking about what could happen next.  After that, the prospect of starting with someone else, even a new job, seemed more like squander than opportunity. And then it became years, again. So here you are. With someone who, when he learns you’ve been ‘sick all week’, says “Oh, you shoulda said. I woulda dropped something off.”   _Dropped something off?  What the fuck.  How about you actually come around and **care**.  What the **actual fuck**._. He isn’t even that fussed about skipping the date tonight.

And if it hadn’t been for checking your messages and opening your mail, late-rent notice included, you would’ve spent all your energy being angry at Fuckboy Stuart and Stupid Self.  Instead you’re pushed into a state of immoveable, low key panic.  Your main job, barkeeping at a restaurant, hadn’t heard from you so gave your shifts to someone else (message left on Wednesday).  Your other job had _kind of_ wondered where you were (message left on Saturday) and apparently assumed you were taking some personal time - “Hey Y/N, there’s work on Monday if you want. Hope you can find yourself sweetheart. Take your time, find your _self!_ Ciao bella!”  That’s how casual your casual job was.  At least they were half right.

But a shift tomorrow and whatever else may come, it’s likely too little too late. If you can’t pay your rent by Wednesday you’ll be in strife.

You blindly make yourself some dinner - something for two - and turn on some music to drown out the quiet.   

Sitting at the counter to eat means you can avoid your crap-covered dining table. It looks like an abandoned island of your life’s flotsam and jetsam, and seats five. _Why five? Could the subtle hints calm down a little?_ You stab at your meal, roll it around your mouth, and try to not feel sorry for yourself.  

The chaotic rubble of your mind starts to settle and one of the things that surfaces is that what you want, really want, is to get out of this imposter house and drive home but you know you can’t… The most developed thought you have is a desire to keep Dean in your life, but you can’t organise a plan for that either, your brain dumbly ball-and-chained to But he’s my husband, why would he leave?

Instead, getting through work and not being evicted (or dehydrated from crying) become your new short-term goals.

The doorbell rings and you answer it expecting to see Dean.  You’re exactly half-half desperate to have him with you and dreading his distant behaviour.  

But it’s Stuart.

“Hey!” he says, kissing you on the mouth before pushing past and joking  “Where the fuck have you been?!”

You sway under an assault of _ugh_.  The smell of him, God, it’s like being slapped in the ear: so obnoxious.  He hasn’t brushed his teeth since an olive-y dinner.  He has uneven stubble.  And he’s wearing the oldest clothes he has, ones that sit crooked because they’re not even symmetrical any more.

You detest him and all that he represents.

“I told you I was sick,” you remind him calmly.

“Well you sounded pretty good on the phone,” he says, putting some beer in the fridge. He looks more comfortable here than you do. “Holy shit that smells good, what is it?”

“Uuh, just a pasta dish,” you answer.

“A ‘dish’?” he mimics cheerfully.  “I didn’t know you made ‘dishes’.”

You blink, checking if that’s a mom-term you’d developed, and wonder if there are any more.  Like _Feet off the coffee table_ , for example, or _You’re dumped._

“I thought I’d come keep you company while the game’s on,” he explains, his soreness about the lack of contact apparently spent.  “You mind?”

It’s fair enough, really.  He’s watched a thousand games at your place while you read a book or something, some part of you leaning on him while he yelled at the screen.  You had to concede, he was pretty harmless.  Unattractive now, but harmless.

“Um, to be honest, Stuart,” you try to meet him before he gets on the couch but he’s quickly flumped against the cushions, kicking back while you stand behind him trying to think of something to say that doesn’t sound patronising.  “Like I said, I am better, but I’m not completely well.  And I need to work tomorrow.  So I’ll probably turn in really early.”

“Oh, okay,” he says and thunks his heel on the coffee table.  “See you in bed,” he decides, fishing for the remote before flicking on the television and cracking open his can.  

You squish your nose at the thought.  Then you get a few flashes of the last few times you were with Dean - hot hands over your hair, murmuring on your lips, eyelashes brushing your cheek and ears against your thighs - fantasy bed or none, you’re rocking at the comparison, and _Hell no_ almost crosses your lips.

Your first instinct is to say something amiable like _I don’t really feel like sharing my bed tonight_ , or even make up something about dirty sheets from being ill…. You wait for an ad break, scoffing the last of your food while you do, and think of what to say.

Dish in the sink and hands wiped, you’re looking at Stuart with a mission in mind and go to sit on the coffee table directly between him and the screen.

“Stuart,” you lean in- he leans right to keep watching. “Wha- They’re ads.”

“Yeah I wanna see them,” he mumbles on an angle.

“Stuart I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?”

“No,” you say patiently. “Can you listen with that on or should I turn it off for a minute?” _Oh shit, that’s a line straight from Anna’s Mom._ You wait to see his reaction but, to your amazement, it’s much better than a sulky pre-teen’s. Stuart sits back straight, looks at you and waits for you to start.

“Right, okay,” you run your palms on your jeans and say the sentence to which all others lead. “I don’t want to go out with you any more.”

“What?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because we’re not doing anything.”

“We do stuff,” he defends. “We have sex.”

Ugh.  “ _Sometimes_ , yeah, that’s the problem: there’s more to a relationship than that and we’re not doing it.”

“Really?” he whines.

“Yeah Stuart, really.”

He thinks for a while, chewing his lip from side to side. “…Well, …what am I supposed to do?” he asks, pointing at the screen with his beer.

You look over your shoulder and realise he means right now.  Sometimes, you know, when he’s overwhelmed he’ll take refuge in routines till he knows what to do.  “I… suppose… you can finish watching the game if you like.”

“Okay,” he says.

You get up, unsure of how this is going, and go back to the kitchen. You make a coffee, sit at the counter, and see Stuart cross and recross his ankles on the coffee table.  Then he takes them down and, after a while, you see he’s finished his beer.  His team is behind and they’d be lucky to draw, but he’s bouncing his knee like he does when the scores are close.

“Hey,” he says, getting up and walking over to where you’re leaning over the counter, pretending to read junk mail.  “I don’t have to watch the game.  We could do something.”

You stop what you’re doing and stand straight, chewing your cheek  “Well, not… really… I just… we just broke up,” you say limply.

You feel a wretched twinge of familiarity.  For the first time since you met Dean, via this scene, you can recall the sour-stale taste of what it felt like in your old life.  It’s not a memory, it’s a feeling and you’re slipping back to _being_ it, like a flitting frequency: complacent and accepting, with resignation on the horizon.  All because Stuart’s here and offering something and Dean’s not doing either.

Stuart comes to the end of the bench and leans there, doing his best to be seductive when he says “What about a break-up fuck,” caressing the back of your hand with his fingers.  “Might be fun.”

You think hard, back to all the lacklustre sex you’ve had with him, even the more heated stuff at the beginning and how he’d just grunt “Baby” when you tried to talk, how he hoped the odd squinty smile would be enough, how selfish he could be, and you wonder where the fuck he got the idea that this would be a gift to you.  And that’s _before_ you compare him to Dean.

You manage to keep a lid on your strong disinterest and let it keep you focused.  “No, thank you.  I don’t want that.”

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“What?” you scowl at him.  “Break-up sex is not meant to be a theme in a relationship, Stuart.”

“C’mon, we could be all angry and raunchy,” he says, running a hand up and down your arm.  He feels like a stranger.

“No, look, if you’re not interested in watching the game then you should go home,” you say firmly.  “You want me to get your things?”

He slumps a bit and starts complaining.  “Well, fucking hell Y/N!  You could give a guy a bit of warning!”

“What? Did you want to plan for it?” you ask in annoyance.  “Do you want your stuff now or not?”

“No!  I want it to stay here!” he demands sorely.  “Why can’t we keep going out?!”

“Because it’s a shit relationship and I don’t want to make it better!” you declare, pausing a bit at your frankness.

“Well, that’s just crap, Y/N.  We’ve been together for years and you don’t even want to try?” he asks, volume rising.  Seems the threat of singledom is all it takes for Stuart to get it together.

But you know you don’t want this, even if Dean’s unavailable.  “No,” you say, approaching the end of your care. “I don’t want to try any more.”

He’s pissed, to say the least.  “Fifteen _fucken years, Y/N-”_

The doorbell rings, followed by sharp rapping.  You open it to see Dean frowning severely and managing some violent opinion, all tempered force and lidded fury.  He has a hand on either side of the door frame, leaning like the house is holding him back.


	6. Ch.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing at a time…

#### Dean’s PoV

I waited as long as I could before knocking.  It didn’t sound that bad, but I could hear Y/N using her defensive tone.  And if this is the asshole I think it is I’m not interested in giving him any space.  

Not that it’s any of my business.

When she opens the door, she lets out a tight breath.  That’s a familiar look, something like when I get home late to a teething Benny, tweening Anna and a broken freezer.  Something like “shoot one of us before I drive away.”  On those nights we order in.

“You okay?” I check.

“Yeah I’m fine,” she assures me, like _This goddamn day_.  “We’re just… breaking up.”

“Right,” I mutter and follow her in. Good.  

“Stuart, this is Dean,” she says as we both come into the kitchen proper.

He’s about my height, looks a bit slower.  I can see how he might’ve been worth it, maybe a fun guy, when he was younger, but he looks pretty pathetic now.  Obviously deeply invested in being a lazy ass- But we are in her house so I should probably keep it friendly for now.  “Hey man,” I say, offering a handshake.

“Hey,” Stuart accepts my hand with grim suspicion and his look shifts between us both.  Yeah, you’re right to wonder, Buddy.  He’s noticing she’s not treating me like a guest, and guessing about why she’s let in this new guy at a time like this.  “So how do you two know each other?”

“I work at the clinic.  Met Y/N when she came in on Monday,” I tell him and lean against the fridge. “Just came to check she’s okay.”

“On a Sunday night,” Stuart notes.

 _Yup._  I could say it’s all part of the health service.  But I don’t.

“That’s mighty big of you.  What did you have Y/N?” Stuart asks.

Doesn’t even fuckin’ know. I glance at Y/N like _Please_ , just give me the nod and I’ll bundle this guy out the door.  “Stomach virus,” she says levelly.  Seamless.

Stuart looks at her and runs his teeth over his bottom lip, building anger as he becomes more sure of his hunch.

I don’t care what he thinks, just so long as he leaves.

“That’s pretty fucking cheap, Y/N,” he says, “lying about being sick to cover up cheating on me.”

Okay, maybe I do care.  Not that he wouldn’t deserve it, but Y/N _doesn’t cheat-_

“I haven’t slept with Dean-” she says firmly, and I bite my smirk ‘cause nearly everything she’s ever done with me is sleep, literally.  Or dream with me at least.

“You don’t have to have fucked him for it to be cheating,” Stuart says sharply.

Oh snap! Gives a shit does he?

Y/N cuts back, “And if I had there wasn’t much left to cheat on anyway.”

“Well, I was happy.” He’s _pouting_. I shit you not.

“I wasn’t,” she says.  Her patience is fucking amazing.

He’s about 20 seconds off throwing a tantrum. Mind you I would too if I realised I’d fucked up this bad.  I mean, look at her.  Now, look at hi-  oh shit, he’s looking at me.  Literally just sized me up.  Yeah, don’t worry about the rest of me Fucko, look at my _face_.  Let me just stand up straight here - “Dean” - _There’s_ the door…  Yeah.   _You’re done._

He takes a breath and starts back sooking.  “Fine, just drop my stuff at Mom’s.”  Thank fuck. Piss off dipshit.

I stare at her feet as Stuart skedaddles out the door. She leans against the sink, opposite me while I rest back against the fridge.

Damn right this fucking day.  Barely 18 hours since we woke up and I can’t stop thinking of my actual yesterday like _it’s_ the dream, the bad one where I chased a djinn down a street and didn’t save a stranger, or myself, from getting caught.  Then we squeeze one and a half decades into the last week and the best description I’ve got is time travel.  But here, this is real, and I can’t figure out who she is to me.  She’s not my wife, I don’t know if she’s even a friend, but I do know how good she is.  I feel like maybe I know her better than anyone in the world, and we went through something together that was great and terrible and… What the hell do we call this?  Fucked buddies?

But it’s not like I can keep her for myself.  God, I need to back off.  I don’t even know her, not really.

“…Did you find the djinn?” she asks. She’s been busying around the kitchen, waiting for me to get my brain together.

“No. It’s moved since Sam busted the hideout. We’ve got another six or so possible locations. Gonna check ‘em tonight.”

She nods in thought. “Six.  Right. You want a decent coffee to get you through?”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” I say. “I came to check on your neck, see how you’re doing.”

“Yeah, I’m good-good,” she says, flapping a hand.  Oh I know that dodge. She’s anything but good.

“Actually, have you eaten?” she asks, and I move so she can open the fridge.

“Uh, yeah, I had a burger.”

“When?”

“Uh… About five.”  I probably should’ve lied but it doesn’t matter, she’s already hit Start on the microwave. She puts some cutlery on the counter, in front of the stool, so I sit.  Acting natural is damn tricky sometimes.

A beer appears before me, some Lite crap she doesn’t drink.  “What the hell’s this?”

“It’s one of Stuart’s,” she explains and I catch a little smile on her.

“Well then,” I say and take a sip. It’s exactly liquid crap.  “Mmmm…  Spite-y.”

She smiles at me properly, leaning over for it, sunshine eyes all crinkly, and my chest just _rings_ , like fills just to get closer to her.  I take a moment, while she’s getting the food, to literally rub the smile off my face and look down to think myself straight.  I shouldn’t fucking be here like this.  It’s a bad idea.

Too late now.  She slides the plate under my face and I’m breathing in the fragrance of an actual meal… it looks goddamn perfect.  I’m scared and soothed all at once.  Before I know it I’ve scooped some into my head and…

 _Fuck_.  

It’s real.  

It’s her cooking.  What else says home as hard as food? Without thinking, I put the fork down, then I make the brilliant mistake of closing my eyes, and my mind sees all of us at the table in the late summer light, our John beside me, and me saying “Manners.”

None of those sensations were real. I’ve never eaten this before.  But I _know_ it… It’s the same.  The _same,_ but more.  It takes up space, and the receptors aren’t in my mouth they’re… memories and dirty dishes and talking over sizzling pans and holding the baby while she eats.  

However many moments later, I’m doing that frozen thousand-mile stare thing, and her voice snaps me out of it.

“Lots of people cook like that,” she says, like our brains are still connected.

I rub my forehead, mumbling “Yep,” and start again.

Y/N clears her throat a little, saying “I’ll make that coffee to go, if you like.”

I eat and try to stay focused on the food, and not watch her be domestic around me, but after a few seconds she starts making conversation.

“So how often do you and Sam deal with things like this,” she asks.

“Uh, always. Dad started us pretty early on around huntin’ stuff. Through high school.”

“John did?” she says. I watch her a bit and hope she’ll say more. “I can imagine him with a gun, I suppose, but… Sounds pretty rough.”

“He was a good dad,” I can’t help myself. “He did his best, and what you saw was pretty much him on his good days.”

I catch her hesitating. She caught the ‘good days’, which means there were bad days.

“What do they do now?” she asks.

“Dead. They’re both dead.”  I’m such an asshole. I don’t even stop eating.

“Okay.”

Seconds later, she’s put two travel mugs in front of me saying “The green one’s Sam’s,” and leaves the room for a while.  She’s gone long enough for me to finish my food, rinse the plate and wash my hands and I lean there chewing my teeth because I flat out forgot how much she loved them.  Dammit, the way they loved her was one of the best parts.

When she comes back, I can tell she’s been upset.  Not a lot, but still, she’s been crying because my Mom and Dad are gone.  And now I’m realising her parents were never really there, always on the phone. I sort of remember her dad at the wedding… Jesus Christ.

She rests against the bench, mirroring me.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” It just slips out, so easy.

Her breath jumps in, like she’s clutching at something, and she gives me a sad smile. “Me too.”

“Let me have a look at you.”  Well, I coulda phrased that better, for both our sakes.

She waits for me to come over, so I move without pausing, like there’s nothing else on my mind. Like I’m not thinking about how much more beautiful she is in real life, sad or not, or how the few times we’ve actually looked at each other has felt like true eye contact. It’s like my sight can touch her now and my skin feels left out.

She tilts her head and I’m not looking at the skin of her neck, either, because I’m being good. I remove the plaster, working as gently as I can, touching as little as possible, apologising in case it hurts.  She takes a deep breath, trying to calm, but I can see her pulse ramp up.  I don’t lean in or crowd her, and I’m doing my damnedest to detach this moment from all the memories I have of just descending on her there, tasting those firm curves, feeling her pulse with my tongue, and getting a lungful at her hairline.  She would push her fingertips up the back of my head and hold herself against me, fall back for me, and sigh things like “Dean, baby…  love you so much-”

I _may_ have just shaken my head to stop thinking about what usually comes next.  I’m right on the edge of her fragrance here and I’m practically afraid of it.  It’s like the last line of defence for keeping my shit together.  I just don’t need more of her right now.  I shouldn’t.

The wound doesn’t need anything other than a fresh cover, which I remembered to pocket just in case. She doesn’t reply or flinch or anything, just looks at the floor and waits.

“Looks fine,” I tell her. I take a deliberate step back and try to think of non-sexy shit.  Sam’s stinking socks.  Scratches on my car-

“Do me a favour please,” she says, not that smoothly. “When you finish tonight, come sleep in the spare room.  Just so I know you’re safe?”

“Sam’ll be pissed,” I think aloud.

“I’ve just spent over a virtual decade watching you try to not miss him when he didn’t visit enough,” she says. I remember. “He’ll get over it and to be honest, this is for you to figure out. For yourself.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

She goes to a tray by the door and I collect the cups as I go past the counter. Without really touching, she slips a spare key into my jeans pocket. Then she leans up, tiptoeing on her way to kissing me goodbye and I could shoot myself because I’m leaning for it too but willing her to stop, and she must see it. She gasps, giving me this terrible close up of her eyes watering and her hand going over her mouth as she pulls away from me. She rights herself and shakes her head, a little moan escaping on the exhale and she tries to cover it with “Stay safe.”  We both freeze. She looks like moving will break her, and I’m about to reboil the coffee with my hands alone.

She takes a button on my shirt and taps it against my chest, then lets it go, taking her hand away like she shouldn’t be touching me. I’m still leaning.

“I will,” I promise. “I’ll come back.”

Y/N nods, doing buck-up smiles.  Djinn shit is so goddamn rough on a civilian, let alone something like this. I wish I wasn’t so roped into it that I could say something objective and helpful.  Everything I can think of starts with “Sweetheart…

She steps back to open the door for me and I know it won’t matter what Sam says, I’m coming back.


	7. Ch.6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s trying to clean things up.

As soon as you hear the car door close you pull your phone from your pocket, thumb in the code, blind to Chris Evans smiling coyly from your lockscreen, and flick up your contacts.  You pace and sniff, running your fingertips over your brow as you scroll for Jo’s number.  You need someone to talk to, someone who’d just suspend reality for a moment and believe something about this.  It’s been ages, but a coffee somewhere for an hour is all you need, and she’s just someone solid.  You scroll down to the Js, then up to the H’s and back down to the Js again before you tweak, throw the phone across the room into a bookcase and scream “Fucking _FUCK!”_ because that’ _s not the right fucking phone_.  Fresh tears track down tight cheeks and you squeeze your fists in frustration.

You can’t tell what upsets you more. The fact that you’re crying over a life you didn’t actually live; or the shock that Mary and John, almost your surrogate parents, are dead.  How long has he gone without them? Why would Mary let John teach them something so dangerous?  Just the thought of Dean mourning them without you, of Mary not being there - how?  Who was there for Sam & Dean? _Who was there for Dean?_  

You can’t tell what you’re allowed.  What you want is to crumple to the carpet and sob indefinitely, mourn for them now like you would if you were still there, and care for Dean with every waking moment you have.  But they’re not yours, and neither is he… _And then I freaking try to kiss him goodbye!  Where the fuck is my brain?  We’re not married.  He is **not mine.**  I’m not anyone’s._

“Uuurrrrrwhat am I _doing?!”_ You thump knuckles on your forehead in frustration, then head for that same bookshelf, pulling out a photo album from years ago.  The sight of Dean panicking - almost repulsed - at you leaning for that kiss has your face watering in embarrassment, shame and hurt. You flap open the album cover and reign in a shaky breath as you start flicking through your history.

It seems dull, and repetitive.  Maybe it’s all the poor lighting and bad fashion, but none of it compares. _Don’t compare, just look._  There’re a few short road trips, but mostly it’s drinking with workmates or Stuart and his friends, and they’re old.  It’s been ages since you’d really done anything worth photographing and even longer since you’d bothered printing pictures.  It’s the complete opposite of life with Dean - you had years of sun-lit snaps and his disgust for selfies disappeared after the engagement. Once you had kids there were photos everyday, and then the kids could take their own photos and snapped Benny’s every move so Dean didn’t miss a thing while he worked, so- _**No**.  Stop it.  Look.  Remember.  This is reality._

There’s only one other album, plus a few packs of spares, so you run through them twice more - until your eyelashes have dried - before getting off the floor.

* * *

#### Dean’s PoV

_I am your strongest advocate, your best defender, your greatest ally._

“So, you’ll pick me up later?”

“Yeah, first light.”

_I will be the last thing between you and whatever hurts._

“Well, check out isn’t till 11am, so we can get breakfast first.”

_I am the line they toe or cross when it comes to you, and I’ll be your hurricane or sun, whichever you need…_

“Dean?”

“Yah.”

“You’re miles away,” Sam says.  “Look, are you sure you’re okay this time?  I mean, besides the strangeness of-”

“I’m fine Sam, it’s just a lot to manage.” I seriously do not want him to rehash the _You’re only making things worse_ conversation from earlier, which was sounded more like _Sam is a compassionless wet blanket._

“Yeah,” he’s doing that over-thinking face with the wifi forehead wrinkle.  “Just… don’t lose focus, okay?”

“Okeydokey.” Get out of the car, man.

I don’t need to watch him unlock the motel room, but I do and even give him a nod before driving away to Y/N’s.  

I’d almost forgotten the guilt I felt when Y/N pulled that paper from her pocket. It was homework in preparation for the wedding and she’d dutifully written me a love letter.  Almost wrecked me on the spot - “Marrying you feels like the easiest thing in the world. No hesitation, no second thoughts, it’s just what’s next. You already have my heart and in it I keep yours.” Or something to that effect.  I asked if we could use it in the vows, but in the end we agreed that first part was a bit… combative.  

Anyways, it stuck on my brain like graffiti, and I made sure I recited it to her on our wedding night.  She’d said it to me and I wanted her to hear it back, every inflection, every meaning.  I remember that part of the day stronger than anything else.

I had read that letter, in front of her.  She didn’t read it aloud.  My mind somehow knew what should be on that page… did I give her the words?  Trying to figure out how this shared dream worked is doing my head in.  I want to know why I know what the top of her head looks like when neither of us have seen it. (Not to mention the rest of her - I mean, there are mirrors but that’s a lot of detail. I wondered if my subconscious substituted someone else but there is no way I can think about that without feeling _rank_.)  That sort of stuff.  Those gaps make me hesitate.  

I creep into Y/N’s house and find the kitchen light on.  There’s a towel and flannel on the counter top beside two wrapped sandwiches and a note: “Help yourself to a hot drink.  Bed’s made - 2nd door on the right. If I find out you needed patching and you didn’t wake me I’ll put salt in your coffee.”

The shower is heaven and the sandwiches hit the spot alright but I spend the whole time wondering if I should open her door.  And if you’re wondering how out of it I am, I realise that yeah I will be opening her door right as I’m damn well staring at her from that open doorway.  

There’s her alarm clock, her robe, her shoes.  That’s her shit… all the stuff she uses every day.  There’s a short ladder against the wall with scarves hanging from it. I try to remember it in our room, or her room before we lived together. Doesn’t look like something either of us would like.  I mean, it’s a ladder _for scarves_.  I can’t even remember her wearing a scarf but I don’t know if it’s something that didn’t happen or something I’ve forgotten…

It feels ridiculous to be standing here and not laying there. I could just pull back the blankets and slide in alongside her… But that’s her bed, not our bed… and she didn’t seem to be inviting that earlier.  I should be able to go one night without her.  Wait… we haven’t actually… oh for fuck’s sake.

The spare room is completely new to me and full of crap I thankfully didn’t have to deal with before - used fitness gear, some snow stuff, a 5-string guitar… I head straight for the bed, get under the covers and just lay there. For about four seconds I wonder how I know the smell of the sheets too, but I can’t hold consciousness for long enough.

* * *

#### Your PoV

He was ready. He was totally fucking ready to get between you and Stuart and… _do… something!_

You went to bed because your exhaustion had you bumping into things, but how the fuck were you supposed to sleep with that replaying in your mind. It was electrifying to see Dean, in real life, glare at Stuart, stare him down to his true size, and fucking dominate that douche canoe with just the look on his face because _everything_ about him said he would _fight for you._  In exactly the way Stuart never would.  You’d spent the next minutes busying yourself around the kitchen just to get your brain together.  And then there was that awful not-a-kiss.   _Ugh._

You don’t know how long you’d been dozing when you heard Dean come home- _back._  Back.  He ate, showered, all those familiar echoes of him being in the house, you could practically hear the way his legs moved between each footfall, and then he opened your door.  You measured your breath.  He stood there so long you wondered if he’d fallen asleep on his feet.  In hindsight you kick yourself for not sitting up and asking if he wanted to talk, but the better part of you knew he must be almost dead on his feet.

Within a minute of his door closing he starts to snore, a not-so-gentle noise you’re now listening to through the wall.   _Sleeping on his darn belly again._  What you would give for him to be in arm’s reach so you could get him to roll over.  

_What I would give…_

You come close, but manage to not tear-up, and chant to yourself to soothe and sleep. 1, 2, 3, wait.  1,  2,  3,  wait.  1.  2.  3.     Wait.  

1…

2…

_Hey._

_Hey, you got room?_

_Course.  Lemme scootch.      Okay?_

_Yeah. Good.    Thought I’d come check you’re okay._

_Where are you?_

_Are you warm? You’re anxious when he’s away._

_He’s good at being the oldest, but he worries.  Worries about the other kids.  He takes on too much._

_Yeah. He’ll get better.    Come ‘ere._

_Where are you? I can’t find you.  These sheets-_

_Sweetheart.  Come closer-_

You jolt when your hand drops, like the last step of stairs you’re not climbing, and your arm wags down and up in the air.  The rest of you is snug under the covers, curled up at the edge of the bed.

It’s 5:30am. You’ve had about all the sleep you can be bothered with.  Automatically, you climb out and pull on your robe, shuffling to the kitchen for a coffee. You lean, wait for the machine to work and your sad thoughts drift to Mary.  You remember how she was with Anna - “Look at those eyes” - but can’t differentiate her presence between your John and Benny.  She always seemed to be leaning over you, smiling, his puffy eyes blinking back, or his coo-gooing when he learned to chat, or buzzing his arms for her to pick him up, but you’re not clear which him it was.  You think you may as well get on with some baking so pull out the mixer’s bowl and all the ingredients.  “I’m so glad he has you,” she’d said.  “You make him so happy.”  She even helped you pick out the dress.  

You remember being pregnant and how she brought meals and took the kid, then kids, and you remember John holding a child, his big hulking form hunched up, soft delight focused on the bundle and its little jolting wriggles, gazing at his boy’s baby.  He looked at you with such gratitude and love, hugged you sideways and kissed your head.  “What a woman,” he murmured.  When Sam arrived to meet Benny, John hugged him, his greeting words “She caught him! Her own hands!  Midwives shoulda brought popcorn.”  And Dean beamed.  Beamed and beamed.

The oven door thuds closed and you stop short, staring at the cups of batter on the shelves.  Monday muffins.  Slowly you pull your lips into your head and start to think.  How will you explain this…?

_I can’t. Just keep going._

You wash the dishes and lean back against the fridge to watch the last minute tick by.   _What to do, what to do._  Out they come to cool and you head off for a shower, then return to box them, your mind miraculously suspended from thought, before getting on with collecting your things for work.

You’ve got another piece of paper, pen poised for a long minute, when Dean shuffles into the room looking criminally adorable.  He’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, rubbing his hand back and forth through his hair, and grunts out “Morning” as he wraps up a yawn.

You hit the ground running.  Away.  “Hey.  So, I’ve gotta get to work.  Take these, help yourself to whatever, get some more sleep, whatever you need. Just lock up after yourself.  I have to be early so I gotta run.”

“What? You shouldn’t be working yet-”

“Dean, I’ve gotta earn some money-”

“It doesn’t matter. You should be resting.  We can give you money, Y/N.”

“No god, please don’t make me owe you that too-”

Dean comes to stand at the end of the counter to talk to you, which blocks your way.  He inspects the tub, muttering “Are these Monday Muffins?” and frowns hard.  You try to slip past while he’s distracted but he backs up to shepherd you.  “Wait.  No.  No, Y/N, you shouldn’t even be thinking about work when you’re this run down, it’s not safe.  What if you forget a dosage or a patient-”  he notices you looking at him like you broke his favourite mug.  (Which he’d done his solid best to be okay about.)

“…Do you mean drink order?”

“You’re… not a nurse, are you?” he asks hesitantly.

“Uh… No.”

“Damn. I really liked that about you.”

“Yeah.  Me too.” You feel decidedly less impressive than Dean’s dream wife, and more of an imposter than ever.

“Did you make these for me?” he asks about the muffins.

“Sort of.  I just.  I was on automatic.  I knew it was Monday, but not, like, last Monday,” you explain.  

“You should have them,” he goes to put them back on the counter.

“No, please,” you say, pretending you’re not on the edge of breaking down about how messy your thinking has been.  “I can’t eat them all and they’re Sam’s favourite.  You guys need _food_ , you know?  You need someone to care for you, Dean.  I can’t stand the thought of you-  I mean, who do you have?”

“Sam and I look after each other,” he says.  

“Not Monday muffin look after,” you sigh.

He knows what you mean and picks at the muffin box absently.

For maybe the tenth time already your instinct is to take his face in your hands and kiss him warm.  Even amongst your own bills, the crowded apartment, the fruit bowl you hate and on this dodgy linoleum, you want to close your eyes and kiss him so you can feel how it was.  But you don’t, and you’re rigid with it.

You both take a deep breath, and you’re off again.  “I still need to keep my job, even if I do get kicked out. Keep the travel mugs.”

“Kicked out of where? Y/N! Hey!” He holds his hands up to stop you even as you hedge him up to the door. “I have to ask you about the djinn, and I’m serious about the rest. Can you skip work today?”

His hands hover like he’s about to grab your shoulders and you take a proper step back, a gesture to give him room to get out of the way.  “No, Dean, I really can’t.  This is a shit aspect of my former life that I can’t dump.  This is a job.”

He plucks your phone from your hand and thumbs in a number and calls it for two rings.  “This is my always-number.  I’m going to call you later okay?” He steps aside, his gaze full of hesitation and apology.

You take the phone and go.

* * *

“Well.  Good riddance to dead wood,” Josh says earnestly.  You’ve barely gotten in the door of the café and your boss wants to know why you’re so pale.  To make a long story as short as possible, you only told him about the break up.

“Wow, okay,” you laugh.  “You been holding that back for a while, huh?”

“Too long, sweetheart.  You’re so much better than him.  If I didn’t know all your faults I’d snap you up myself.”  Josh wraps an arm around your shoulders and walks you back to the register beyond the seating area.

“Ahem,” Sarah announces.  “I know the woman’s recovering but you don’t need to fling me aside just yet.”

“Would you have me, Y/N?” he asks.

You sigh “Not in a blind fit Josh,” and he laughs openly, leaning over the counter to kiss Sarah while she pats his cheek a little too firmly.

“Glad to hear you’ve still got your marbles, Y/N, even if you’re in mourning,” she pats your hand.  You smile back and head off for an apron.

The next hour is spent in a contained rush.  You’ve no need to move quickly - the place isn’t that busy and everything’s as it should be - but you visited the restaurant before work, catching Chad doing the morning inventory and he couldn’t schedule any more shifts or give you an advance or anything.  It had been a slim chance but you needed to try.  Chad asked why you hadn’t phoned and you’re not at all sure you covered that convincingly.  Now it feels like your whole job at the restaurant is threatened and you’re unconsciously overworking at the café to compensate.

You take a minute before the mid-morning rush to eat and to check your phone.  Dean’s texted “I need to talk to you soon.  Where do you work?”

With a deep breath and too much lip chewing, you text back that you can’t afford to take much of a break but here is where you work anyway.  So Dean’s going to see you as a waitress, not a nurse.  It feels like another thing - your name, your house, your ex and now your job - wedging itself between what you both were and what you could be.

Sam and Dean arrive within the next 10, find a table and wait patiently.


	8. Ch.7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Dean had a picture perfect marriage, and now you really don’t. You retrace your steps to help Sam and Dean figure out how it all happened.

Sam and Dean read the menu. They seem dressed for the office, for some reason.  They’ve both nodded a quick smile your way, Dean’s holding for a second longer than it should. He’s happy to see you amongst people and doing something well.  You can tell, too, he doesn’t care about your job.

In all the busyness of the cafe, you catch Dean’s eye across the room.  You sign an offer for coffee and he signals for two.   _Pie?_ you mouth. For a moment, he pops a sweet smile that’s all _Really?_ then nods before clearing his throat and giving you a serious _Yeah Sure_.

You deliver their order between all the rest saying “You’re allowed to let me serve you pie, you know.”

“Yeah I know,” Dean grumbles, forgetting to pretend he doesn’t know you.  You’re that tired and strung out, you almost laugh at the way he tries not to smile.

“It’s, like, my actual job.  You can ask for all the pie you want.  Even pecan-”

“ _Okay._ Thank you.”

Making him squirm is new and toe-curling.  You haven’t been able to do that in virtually years.

“Hey Sam,” you smile openly, and he fumbles a “Ye- Hi- Hey.  Hey Y/N,” just before you disappear again.

Every so often Dean looks over in your direction and catches a picture of you in the here and now.  Even though you’re not your usual colour, you’re in natural light, talking and smiling, and he can watch you move, see the curves of your body, your proportions, the way you carry yourself and the shape and shade of your hair.  It’s you in real life, everything just slightly new.  He’s forming an actual memory of you and the neurons of his brain aren’t just connecting to each other, they’re lighting up nerves in all sorts of places.

You try relaxing some, let being tired narrow your focus to the present, let your money troubles move aside while you smile and chat with customers.  And you let yourself feel flattered by a guy who’s not your husband looking at you like he is.  You look all the sweeter for it.

The last few tables are turning over when you feel soft fingers on your elbow.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Dean says. He draws you to the front door to talk. You can’t decide if his touch feels perfectly natural or exciting in the best way.

“’Ma’am’? I’m younger than you, remember?”

“You think anyone calls me son these days?” he replies.

“That’s different,” you insist, with some cheek. “Don’t ma'am me in public.”

“Where the hell else am I gonna ma'am you?” he says in a hushed scold.  You raise an eyebrow and he swallows a cheeky grin about the answer.

 _Oh my God_ , you think, _We’re flirting._  “So what do you need?”

“So the djinn followed you towards home, right?” he says, leaning close so he can speak quietly. “Can you show me the path. The places we checked last night came up empty.”

“Yeah, but I don’t get off for hours-”

“Y/N, everything okay?” Out of nowhere, Sarah is beside you.

“Ma’am, my name’s Agent Farmer,” he states, pulling out what seems to be an authentic badge from his chest pocket.  You put all your energy into your eyelids keeping your eyeballs safely in your head.  “We need to ask Ms L/N a few questions about an incident last week.  Can we borrow her for a while?”

Goodness, authority suits him.

“Yes, of course!” Sarah exclaims.  “Take as long as you need!”

“You sure?” you check, but you’re already removing your apron.

“Yes, honey, go.”  She shoos a hand at you, her eyes giving the slightest suggestion that she has gossipy questions about Dean.  You don’t respond at all and head out while he holds the door.

Around the corner, Sam catches up with you both.  You feel strange walking beside Dean and not holding his hand, or something, so when you all single-file to let people pass you fall back in line beside Sam, and regret it immediately.

“So I remember heading down this way,” Dean describes to you, “following him once I saw him zero in on you.  What do you remember?”

“Nothing, nothing along here anyway…” you reply, wishing you were more useful.  “Maybe if we keep walking…”

Pedestrians and lampposts interrupt your conversation as you stride toward your home, the brothers keeping pace with you.  Then you pause at a shop front, your hand loosely lifting toward the window.

“This,” you say. “I stopped here because… yeah, look at this!  Easter stuff already!  Which is good and bad, you know?”  You get closer to the bay-window run your eyes over the display arranged like a treasure chest of chocolate.  Then you notice the curve of the glass and how it reflects people all the way down the road.  You tap the patch where the reflection once was.  “I saw him.  He was back there,” you turn and gesture in the middle-distance, “he was watching me and, just, extremely weird.”

“They are weird,” Dean says, encouraging you.

“So I turned and kept walking, and I was just, working on not panicking.”  They follow you as you take the path, moving slower now so as not to miss anything. 

Your route home turns right, between the commercial buildings and down a side street that leads to car parks and, another block further, office buildings.  It’s barely two cars wide, brick to brick.  You walk down and pause at the rear corner of the building, looking down another alley at its back.  The alley runs parallel to the main shopping strip, back toward the cafe, and comes out two streets up.

“Here,” you say, making your way down the narrower path.  “I turned down here to head back to work ‘cause i was scared.”  Dean follows you, Sam behind him because it’s not really wide enough for easy side-by-side walking for two big guys.  Dean says “Huh, wish it was-”

“Wait! Waiwaiwait!” You’ve turned, your hands almost landing on Dean’s chest as he comes up short.  “Say that again.”

“I wish-”

“No, say _exactly_ what you said.”

Dean thinks a moment, looking down at you squeezing your eyes shut, knocking your knuckles together.  “I said ‘Huh, wish-”

“You were there!” you point toward the alley’s entrance. “I heard you make a noise.” It’s loose but you have the parts.  Sam steps back to give you a clear view of the scene.  

“Well, yeah-”

“Hush.  You were hurt,” you explain, “I saw you hit the wall and slide down, and he stepped into the alley, looking down at you and… I heard your noise.”

You go back, past Dean and Sam to stand over the place it happened.  They come up behind you, watching you map it out, waiting for the rest.  “I don’t remember getting down here but I was grabbing your jacket saying Hey, Get up! Wake up!  He kept coming.  He’d thrown you so far.  He had this awful grin.”

“Where exactly?” Sam asks.

“Uh, Dean was sitting, well, slumped here and I was, I think I was kneeling between his legs,” you say, squatting down and facing the wall, far enough from the side road for things to be quite private.

“And he came up like this?” Sam asks, stepping to the spot he imagines.

“He stood right there,” you point at the ground barely a yard from your own knees.  Sam takes the place, towering over you.  Dean keeps his feet still, feeling himself wind tight at the image of you below such a tall figure.  He looks at Sam to remind himself you’re okay now, you’re safe with them.

“What happened next?” Sam asks.

“Uh, he leaned down and reached for Dean,” you describe.

“What did you do?”

“I turned around and, I just.  He kept leaning over, palm first.”  You look up at Sam and say, “I don’t suppose it would sound strange if I said his hand was glowing.”

“No, no that’s how they work,” Sam assures.  “So he’s reaching down, looking at Dean, and you..?”

“I just… got in the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I lifted myself, scrambled a bit, with my hands on his thighs, got up to stop him touching Dean,” you look up at Sam and realise.  “Maybe that’s how we shared the dream.  Maybe our heads were touching when the djinn got me.”

Dean swallows then, taking in the tableaux of you between him, lain unconscious and vulnerable, and danger.  You, willing to sacrifice yourself to an unknown end for some guy.  He looks at Sam, chewing the inside of his lip, and feels like telling him to never say another word against you.  But he sees then, how Sam is staring down at you, from a place of power and advantage, working his jaw before nodding with that look of solemn reverence.  

Sam reaches out to help you up and you wait to hear what he’ll say.

“I think, from here, there might be another few places that are along the way to where I found you.”

“How did you find us?” you ask.

Sam swallows and shifts his weight. “Luck. Mostly.”

“Seriously?” Dean says, almost whining.

“Well! It’s a declining industrial town - _acres_ of abandoned warehouse space.  I mean, you’ve seen it. There’s a reason the djinn chose here.  I just don’t know how we haven’t found it again.  People who disappeared before you are still missing.  And you guys were a mile from here.  Even with its strength, getting two bodies-”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean gruffs.  “Let’s just find the fucking thing.”

Sam goes back up the alley to walk down to the side road, toward the corporate estate but Dean doesn’t move.  Quickly he understands Dean means to talk to you and is waiting for him to leave, so he does.

“Y/N, thank you,” Dean says, stepping closer to you and looking down at where you both were. “Thank you for trying to protect me.”

“That’s okay.  I didn’t do a great job.   _Obviously_ ,” you shrug.  You angle yourself towards him, thankful for a private moment away from your house.  “I don’t know that I made much difference, though-”

“You could’ve not run back to me,” he says.  He looks older, not weathered, but you can see better in this light and where this happened, he has a whole world you don’t know and it’s heavy.  You always thought he looked extraordinarily beautiful; now he actually looks his age.

“That’s true,” you admit quietly.  “We wouldn’t have met.  I mean, you know, we didn’t meet… but… you know.”

You’re staring at the spot where it all changed.  Where you were petrified and panicked, then woke up with a future that had would never happen, with someone you couldn’t have and loved ones you’ll never see again.  You shouldn’t want it at all, because it’s only in your mind.  And you do know, completely, that it was an illusion but you’re still sore about it, like you’ve been robbed.  Like negatives have been burned. Like a recipe is lost.  Like you know who’s behind the one-way mirror.

You look down at that place and wonder what would’ve happened if you’d run instead.  You think, although you’ll probably spend this weekend homeless, single, and heartbroken, trying to save Dean’s life probably saved yours.

You sigh, but it doesn’t relieve you.  For a moment your blinks are pressing, willing away the fatigue, and your eyebrows fight to keep you focused.  Dean finds himself watching you cope, almost reaching out to steady you, and even though he has a memory of wanting to call your supervising nurse and yell at her for over scheduling your night shifts back when you had two young children, it’s actually a new anger he’s feeling.  It’s for you, not that fading life.  He wants to comfort you, walk you back to work with you tucked under his arm.  He can see you need someone and need support and he’s just about done pretending he doesn’t care.  He wants you in his arms.  It’s been a whole day.

“You know, when you collapsed in front of me, I was useless,” you tell him.  He listens intently.  “Nothing came to me.  Not a single day of training, not one procedure.  And when I think of the work at the hospital, there’s the signing in and out, talking with nurses, people in beds, all that general stuff everyone knows, but no detail.  No medicines, jargon, paperwork, nothing.  I called 911 almost in hysterics…  It really was all make believe…  I feel like such a fool.”

“Y/N, this is meant to be messy, you know?” Dean licks his lips and steps closer, keeping a careful watch on himself.  “We weren’t supposed to wake up from what we went through.”

“I know,” you say.  “I just wish I was waking up to something worth getting out of bed for.”

“Your life is just fine, Y/N.  You may think it’s dull but shit, you’re alive, you have choices.”

“I have an eviction notice arriving in two days.”

“You have choices,” he repeats, “and you’re well and smart and beautiful.  You can still be a nurse, if you want.”

“Yeah, I can,” you say dryly.  “And that’s just great, but it’s a hell of a long way between here and there.  And this here? I don’t want anything that I had, Dean, none of it, not even who I was. The only real things in that dream were me and you. Now it feels like you’re the only good thing I’ve got.  So what am I supposed to do?”

His gaze levels on you and he swallows.  You know, instinctively, he has an answer for that.  The moment rings between you.  You silently pray that he’ll say what he really wants and show some conviction about it.

He takes your fingers, a half-shake of the head betraying him as he looks over them amongst his own.  You rub your knuckles into his palm, encouraging him to hold.

“We were so good Dean… What am I supposed to do?”  

His fingers wrap tight around yours and his eyes snap up to look at you, sucking all the air from your throat.  For a split second, your hearing goes watery and you feel a pull, like the earth is drawing in between you and the tilt will bring you together.

Footfalls echo from the side road.  Sam skids to a stop at the alley’s entrance saying “Dean!” and motions for him to follow.  Dean looks at you in apology, drops your hand and you follow him out to the road.  He starts to walk away saying  “Go back to work Y/N.  I’ll call you.”

“Wait, what if you don’t call?” you ask as he begins to run.

“I’ll call,” he yells over his shoulder.  

You bite your lower lip, pin your head closed with it, to keep from sending him off with a habitual _I love you_.  You’re watching him and Sam run off down an empty street, the apocalyptic stillness of it shaking you.  This is what they do.  They run towards monsters.  

But what if he doesn’t call…


	9. Ch.8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn’t know what to do about all this, but there’s a djinn to sort out right now…

#### Dean’s PoV

I’m doing everything I can to not shake my head, free it from whatever almost happened back there. But the rest of me is practically buzzing. I can’t think straight.

Sam leads me to a house, a big, old weatherboard dump at the edge of a carpark and next to a new office block. It’s the last remaining residence in amongst new commercial developments - we had no idea this was here - and caged by a flimsy, vine-covered demolition fence. Sam stops at the corner, under a tree, and points to the window. From this angle I can see straight through the house and after a second or so I can make out the shape of a body dangling by its wrists, thin lines of tubing beside it. We squeeze between two lengths of fence and creep down the side of the house, under the windows. We don’t have a solid plan but really, ‘get in and kill it’ is usually good enough.

The back door isn’t locked, and it’s quiet. The house has been violently renovated - most of the walls are punched through around chest height, and some are gone completely from the waist up. It’s almost open plan now - post-post modern. We creep in, heading straight for the bodies, and before Sam gets through the kitchen the djinn has appeared and knocked him down like a sack of potatoes. Fucking great work Sam.

It’s definitely the same creepy asshole - taller than I remember - and when he sees me his face practically lights up with nostalgia. I can’t get past Sam for a decent fight so I get through a table-sized hole in the wall so I can come round back of it, use some space. He moves into the room to meet me. The victims look like a hipster meat locker behind him. I’ve got roof debris all underfoot and Sam hasn’t gotten up.

He rounds in on me and we fight. Like, proper fight and I’m trying not to curse between the uneven ground and his gangly height. He doesn’t even try to use his poison on me, just goes for my knife instead and he seems to be extra angry I’m alive. A few rounds in, I know I got him some good ones but it’ll take a lot more to floor him than me. Case in point, I’m damn well against the wall already with his back to me and for every punch I land on his ribs he bashes my arm against the broken edge of the wall, trying to release the knife from my fist.

Sometime around the 6th or 8th go it works and the blade clatters on the other side of the wall, in the kitchen, which is just perfect. I get my feet into the corner and push off, twist around him, lunging for a broken brick a few yards away and mean to bash his head in. In the corner of my vision I can see Sam’s head, a stupid egg on his temple, no sign of poisoning. But now I’ve got victims behind me. I misjudge it, bumping into one and he groans a bit. I’m finding it hard to get a proper spring in my arms. Maybe a week out of action and no recovery has made a difference. Maybe we shoulda planned a bit more.

The djinn moves forward fast, and it’s too crowded so I throw the brick, like a damn goon, and duck around him, only to get backed into the corner again. There’s barely 2 feet of wall on the right side, but it’s easily enough for him to pin me in, crushing my shoulders into the tight space. He holds his hand up and starts it glowing. My left forearm is pushing back on his weapon, my right pushing on his ribs, slipping for purchase. He’s grinning, this growly chuckly grating noise starting up and I’m trying not to think of the dream. The idle part of my brain wonders that, if she was here, could I hold her hand and take her back with me for a while. For maybe a second, a tunnel-visioned, apple-sweet moment, I can feel how much I want that.

He pushes again, a solid shove that makes me slip down the wall a few inches and my grip on his chest gives. I fling my arm out to catch something, anything, a piece of broken plaster at least, but there’s just air, the glowing hand shaking in my grip and he’s got me wedged into the corner so tight I can’t even turn my head. I’ve slipped enough now that I can grab the lower edge of the hole, splinters and all.

Then he uses what really is his last weapon. “I can make it so she’s there,” he says. His venomous hand is so close, right by my cheek, glowing cool and sweet and fucked if it doesn’t smell like peanut-butter and banana muffins.

I want it, I do, so hard. But it’s a wish for a dream. Sam isn’t there, and neither is she, not really, so it’s the easiest decision I’ve made in a while. I’m not that damaged. Shit.

He tries to slide us both down the wall, where he can use his weight against me more, and I use everything I’ve got in my legs to resist. But then I feel a dry warmth on my arm. Someone is pulling my wrist, holding it still, and the handle of the dropped dagger lands square in my palm, the hilt of it by my thumb. Without thinking, I slam it into the djinn’s chest. He flickers white-blue and looks extremely pissed.

I slide down with him and push him off, look into the kitchen, run around to the doorway where Sam fell and see Y/N laying over him, protecting his torso and head.

“Y/N! What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” Well, what else am I gunna say.

She looks up at me and says “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. What are you doing?” I step around Sam so I can actually squat down and see him.

“You didn’t hear how the wall was creaking?! I thought you two were going to bring the whole thing down!”

I check Sam, feel around his skull and neck and keep checking while she talks.

“I think it’s just concussion,” she says. “He’s breathing fine, no blood anywhere, eyes are the same. I actually remembered something about concussion this-”

“I told you I’d call,” I tell her. I’m kneeling over my brother, lucky to be alive, and trying to figure out what the hell to say so she never fucking does that again.

“You almost couldn’t, you know.”

“Y/N, you can’t- you can’t just run toward danger because I might get hurt!” Fuck, I’m shaking.

“Why not?” she asks. _Seriously_.

“Because you have to stay safe!” Why the fuck do people need this explained to them?

“I’m allowed to do dangerous things if I want,” she says, like it’s a fact. As if our John saying that wouldn’t have her tearing the house down.

I must have some sorta thought about it though ‘cause she practically flinches when I look at her.

“Let’s get these people down.” That’s the best I can do without raising my voice.

The only other times she speaks is to the victims, soothing and calming, handing out cups of water, giving generic answers to their questions. I get Sam up to date until he’s ready to go, till my tremor goes.

The longer we take the stonier she gets but she keeps up. I drag her out of there once Sam is good enough, and we jog back the way we came, turn into the narrow alley and all the way down towards the cafe. We stop before we get out into the open street and she turns toward us, like _What’s next?_

She shouldn’t be here, and shouldn’t’ve come. She was in the house and I didn’t even know - couldn’t have protected her - and with Sam unconscious… It just could’ve gone so much more south than that. She’s fucking scared the shit out of me the first time danger shows up, and just…

Breaking it off, whatever this is, may be for the best and I’m going to have to get it done before I really… Before it gets any messier. Now or never, right?

“How you doin?” I check with Sam.

“I’m fuzzy, but okay,” he says feeling the lump on his head.

Y/N offers up “You can stay at mine tonight, if you need supplies or a second person to watch-”

“No, thanks. We’ll be fine,” I cut in. Sam frowns at me and I feel like such a Dad but it doesn’t stop me asking him to wait in the car. He needs the rest anyway.

“Y/N, we gotta talk.” She stands there looking like she’s about to get told off. It’s weird. I remember having arguments back then, but she seemed taller, ready for the fight. I gotta keep my distance and remember she hasn’t really met me as a hunter. But you know what? Screw it. If I frighten her away maybe that’ll work better.

“You said before you can run into danger if you like,” I remind her.

“Yeah, I did,” she agrees.

“Well, no, Y/N, you can’t,” I start, and just… let myself get angry. “For one, that’s our job. We train for it, we grew up with it, we do the hunting and take the risk.”

She’s hiding her surprise well. I keep going. “And two, what comes with that is that we’re the ones who go first and second. Okay? Not you. If you’re gonna go swanning around in dangerous situations, what’s the point of us even trying. You stay back and wait and find out if we call. That’s as good as it gets for the hangers on.” Okay, that was a bit low.

She’s shocked, almost ashen, at my sudden tone, and I’m starting to race, but fuck it, better safe than sorry. Let’s add some volume. “You don’t fit in here. There’s no place for you in our lives, no vacancy. There’s nothing you’re able to do that we need done. You’re just going to have to face up to making something of your own life instead.”

She stands there, rigid, watching me yell. I’m almost leaning over her now. I’ve never used my height before, never rained it down like this. I feel guilty and sick and I’m breathing too hard. She hasn’t moved, just watches me go at her, and I’ve never seen her look so hurt.

Never said I wasn’t an asshole.

Doesn’t matter. If this is what it takes for her to stay away and safe and never call again, it’s for the best. “You get me, Y/N?” Last nail. “I don’t want you with me.”

That’s it.

Her face buckles and mine is hot with lies. I’m just breathing, waiting. But she doesn’t break. There’s a wet, shaky breath in and out. She hurt and furious and just as she starts to talk a tear escapes.

“This is not the way to do this,” she says.

Ah shit, I’m not gonna give. I can’t. I can’t do her and Sam. I can’t ask her to do this life after what we had. Fuck it. _Fuck it-_

“Yeah, it is.” I turn and walk back to the car.

I’m leaving Y/N alone, in an alley, after she saved my fucking, good for nothing ass. Again.

I get back to the main street and my head’s lower than ever but a lot higher than I deserve. When I turn onto the footpath I see her in the corner of my eye and, even from here, I can tell she knows I know it’s a load of goddamned shit, and so am I.


	10. Ch.0.97

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows on from Ch.0.96, born in a 5min challenge. They’re both set in the last days of a djinn dream.

You brushed your fingers over the sides of his face and smiled at him while he looked at you.  His hands rested on your hips, half tucked into the loosened waist of your jeans.  He’s all close and proud, feeling your weight on his lap, enjoying his wife in his dining room with no interruption likely.

“D’you know how rosy your cheeks get when you come?” he asked.

“Hmm,” you smiled.  “I can feel the heat in my eyes.”  You kissed him, fat and wet, hunching your shoulders and wrapping your arms around his neck, hugging and pressing yourself against him. Dean squeezed your bones then wrapped his arms around you too, great ropes of muscle around your waist, humming low at your affection.  He started to kiss across your cheek, down your neck and into your cleavage, nosing the shirt open, while his hands found the clasp at your back and undid your bra. He pulled the straps loose from your shoulders so he could slip his fingers up your ribs and under the cups.  He talked into the softness, while you threaded your fingers through his hair.

“Hey, I wanna show you something,” he said, “hop up.”

You slid off and stepped back, smiling a little at the way your jeans now hung low on your hip, your panties askew and damp, and pulled your arms into the white shirt to slip the bra away completely.  Dean stood and watched you deftly fiddle with your undergarment.  “Love the way you do that,” he murmured, sliding his fingers down the cotton to take the heft of your breast beneath. “So handy.”

Tucking his face into your neck, Dean walked you both from the dining room toward the lounge and stopped in the doorway.

“What am I looking at?” you asked him.

“The couch,” he kissed your neck, stroked your belly in circles.

“Our 10 month old new-until-the-first-stain couch?”

“Yeah, c’mere.”

Dean walked you over to the larger of the suite’s sofas, sat you on the large, firm cushion and knelt before you.  His gaze flicked up to yours, happy, quietly bursting with something untold, while he encouraged your jeans and panties down your legs.  You took the hint and worked on his too, stroking his cock as it was freed.  He stopped short of getting his off properly, instead leaving them bunched at his knees and rubbing his palms over your generous hips. You grinned, slipped his shirt up and drank in the sight of him here, yours, beautiful and undistracted.

“So what is it?” you asked again, and ran your hands over his chest, shoulders, wherever they surfed.

Dean shifted forward so that his erection slid between your folds. He sucked a breath and moaned at the sensation, so much heat, so full and swollen.  Cupping your head with one hand, the other exploring around under your shirt, he worked himself back and forth against you while he kissed, listening to your breathing accelerate again, the odd hum bouncing out as he crudely nudged your clitoris.

Slowly he worked you backward, pushing your head up with his face under your chin, kissing and licking downwards as you lay back.  He unbuttoned your shirt completely, slid his hands across your chest to push it open, then worked his mouth over your skin, over to a breast, and hummed.  You watched him adore you, pulled your hands up his ribs, and felt your nipples talk to your groin as he grazed and tugged the tips.

He angled his hips a little, letting his cock drop into the dip of your core, hot and full, and wanting.

“D’you remember I insisted on this couch?” he asked, moving over to your other breast.

“It wasn’t for the colour?” You wiggled your hips against him.

He leaned, sliding into you, steady and determined, and you sucked a tight breath between your teeth, stretching yourself long at the sensation of him pushing himself over your g-spot on the first go.  He dragged his hips back, out and in, at the same pace and waited here, watching you reach for the back cushion above you, frowning, jaw dropped, sighing your moan.

“Don’t be quiet baby,” he told you.

“Christ… Dean… that’s-”

He dragged out and in again, moaning and tucking his arms under you to hug and squeeze while you got a little louder.  “Hmmmmmyou ready sweetheart?” he asked, his voice languid and patient.

“For what?” you sighed, smiling as you took the bait.

“You mind if I fuck you?“

“Please, baby, yeah,” you said, palms on his cheek, fingers on his lips.  “I’d love you to fuck me.”

He kissed the pad, let you slip your thumb between his teeth, licking it before mumbling “Okay, let me show you why I really bought this god-awful couch.”

Dean pulled back and slammed into you, a satisfied groan punching out of him upon impact.

“Oh! Fuck!” you yelled, snatching onto his wrist and grasping the cushion.  Again he thrust, unable to keep quiet while he listened to you groan through your teeth.  He adjusted his hold on our hip and waist and watched you writhe.

“Oh! You smug bastard!” you gasped, “You’re grinning aren’t you?”

“Hm hmmm I am now,” he chuckled, leaning over to kiss your chest.  “How’s it feel?”

“Fuck,” you ground your pussy against him, not really able to wrap your legs around him and make him move, but you could push against the couch with your arm.  “Why are you stopped? _Go_ Dean.  Please, it’s perfect-”

“God you’re gorgeous, Y/N,” he sighed, screwing into you a little as he straightened and you groaned to let him know it was good.  He dragged his hands down your body, catching your eye, losing a moment, smiling down at his wife.  “I’ve waited a long time to hear you make noise because-a me.”

“Still waiting, my love,” you sighed happily.  “Come on, I probably sound different these days.”

“Hohhhhya killin’ me sweetheart.”

Dean held you tight, took a mental snapshot, and fucked.  Fucked and fucked and you panted “Oh! Fuck! Baby! God!” effortlessly showing him how good he felt while you had privacy. He took in the way his fingers dug into your softness, the strength in your arms as you held strong, the way your jaw dropped as he pushed over your g-spot with every thrust, and tripped it again on each pull.

Soon he was working fast enough that you let go of the couch and let your body bounce off his hips.  He took your hand, led your fingers to your folds and helped you tweak and flick.  Your voice jumped in pitch, and you stopped using words.  Dean watched your breasts - _those glorious breasts_ \- move with you, watched your cheeks flush anew, and winced as you squeezed his wrist and came again.  Finally he let his eyes close to listen to the tight tingling inside himself, letting it go, fucking you freely.

As soon as he slowed, leaned a hand beside your waist, you walked your grip up his body to pull him down.  You kissed and kissed, bouncing your lips over his face and ears while you said “Oh - my God! - You fucking - I love you - holy shit - could never - figure out - what - the hell - this couch - like, _why_ \- you would want - you sneaky sonofabitch.”  You settled his chuckling face on yours, lips happily mashed.  “You’re in charge of buying furniture from now on, okay?”

You giggled and hugged and rested while he nuzzled into your neck.  “Okay,” he chortled.  “I’ll buy the fucking furniture.”


	11. Ch.9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, the poo-poo head, returns your travel mugs and tupperware box.

#### Dean’s Pov

Sam’s wearing his I have a question forehead when I get back in the car.  “Yeah what?”

“You look like something happened?”

“Nothin gets past you hey.”

“What happened? What d’you do?”

What did I do?  …I saved her.  “I just-  I wrapped it up.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t be a bitch, Sam.  It doesn’t concern you.” Sweet Jesus I just want this over with.

“Where’s Y/N? What the hell did you do?”

I have a big fat answer for that but honestly, I can’t be bothered, and start the car instead.

 _“Dean-”_  

“You don’t sound much concussed-”

“You don’t sound like you’re good with whatever just happened.  You know yesterday, I just meant that you should remember what’s imaginary and what’s real.”

I hate it when he calls it imaginary.  Sounds so childish.  “Really? ‘Cause it sounded like you thought I should forget it ever happened!”

“Are you serious? That’s what you got from that?!  For Christ’s sake!”

Woulda been just fine with him being hit just a little harder.  Heaving his giant ass into the car woulda been easier than this.  Now he’s fucking pressing the air to calm _himself_ down.

“Okay. I meant to just point out that you’ll be different here and so will she.  Go for it if you want, just don’t depress yourself ‘cause you forgot she isn’t actually the white picket fence.”

Hurrrrrrrrrrrr-

“Like, you’re essentially going to be starting again, based on a shared experience.”

Lord deliver me.

“Do you get what I’m-”

“Yes. I get you, Sam. She’s not a fence.”

“Dean-”

“Yes! Enough! … _Fuck!”_

Back at the motel, Sam decides we’re staying another night and even though I’m beat and he’s injured and we don’t have anything else to head out for, he still says it’s because “if you’re going to make a mistake you may as well make sure it stays made.”  Asshole.

We get some food and rest for a few hours.  Sometime in the afternoon he wakes up practically rambling, all “What are you doing here? Have you been already? Why haven’t you gone?” griping and all I need. He gets up and puts the travel mugs in the empty muffin box and thuds it in my lap saying “Return them, jackass.”

Now, chances are, if I know my not-wife, this will not go smoothly.

It’s not like Y/N and I never had fights.  Or ‘arguments’ as she would say, like the kids could deal with it better that way.  It just felt like it never really got that bad because her insults were always so tame. Not for others mind, just for me.

One time she described the Sally at her work as a salt-licking fanny-fart, and the woman who tagged her for the local council position was a flat out stinking bitch.  I heard her call PTA Simon a shit-munching fuck knuckle because he made ‘compliments’ about her breasts, and later on, when he did it again he was upgraded to a motherfucking bag of dicks.

But the last time we argued - I don’t even know about what - she called me a dopey muppet.  A dumb-dumb.  A right donkey.  “Silly meathead” was my favourite I think and she said it while calling me out on some ‘avoidance strategy’ or something I’d used with Sam.

No, I didn’t get the c-words and F-bombs. I got adorable insults and the truth. Way worse.

Think I’ll be inspiring some extra delightful names today.

* * *

#### Your PoV

You open the door and find none other the man himself there on your threshold.

There’s a second of hesitation before he bends a wrist, pathetically presenting your container and travel mugs.  Clearly someone told him to come say sorry like he means it.  The sight of him standing there, the only person you want looking for all the world like an immovable object, stirs you angry.  All your remaining self-pity forms itself into something jagged and throwable.

“Hi. I just came to return-”

“Oh you’re a goddamn treasure you are.”

“Well…” he offers the container again. “Sam’s concussed and-”

“Whatever.  I’ve got some whiskey open.  You want?” You say and head for the kitchen.  

“Yeah,” he sighs “probably for the best,”  and closes the door behind himself. He has a look around while you drop a double into a fresh tumbler.  The house is scattered with boxes.

You put his glass in front of him and when he picks it up he says “Well, you’re in a shit mood.  Good to see.”

Nods exchanged and whiskey downed, you reply dryly “No I’m not. I’m _reflective_.”

He has a vaguely thoughtful expression, nothing giving away how glad he is to find you angry and productive rather than miserable and channel-surfing.  You seemed to have bounced back a little too well, in fact, showing familiar shades of your djinn-dream self.  Maybe he’s a bit jealous, but he points at you with glass in hand, gesturing a once over.  “Well, you look good.  Jean shorts and barefoot with your hair all nice.  Always liked that look.”

You suppose he’s trying to make you feel good about yourself, but it comes across as pissy, as if you dressed for him.  “You know the part where you called ahead to say you’re coming over?  Think that happened just in your head this time.”

“No I’m just sayin’, Stuart was an idiot-”

“Oh fuck off. You seriously came here to return Tupperware and talk about my ex? Sure you wouldn’t prefer a glass of red, Helen?”

You pick up the fruit bowl, roughly tip out the fruit and take it to one of the many boxes in your living room. There’s a suspicious clank-crack sound when you drop it in.

He swallows.  This isn’t going to how he would’ve expected, had he actually thought ahead.  You’re really very angry, and swearing.  Maybe it’s the drink. “Hey I just came to check you’re okay, so-”

“Well, woop-dee-fuck. You also told me to take my pathetic, useless ass out of your life. So I’m not sure you’re my own very special care bear amongst everything else.” But he is, in a way. Even if he leaves without you and tells you goodbye.  You’ve got no one else like you’ve got him. _Had? Have? Fuck._ You’re tempted to pack the fruit just so you can crush something.

“Y/N I care.  Of course I fucking _care,_ ” he says, voice rising. “ Why do you think I-  You know what, _you_ shouldn’t even be-”

“Hey, don’t yell at me!” you yell. “I understand just fine. Don’t think for a minute I don’t know you well enough to not know what you meant!”

_“What?!”_

“I got it, Dean.  I got the message. But you were so frikken _awful!_  You were _mean!”_

He stands there, puffing with guilt but defiant about the end game. After a moment, he tries to glare at you and shakes his head, an expression that says _You and your goddamn words._   Seconds pass, breathing levels out… then he pulls himself up and tries to make things civil again.

“So what’s all this,” he asks, waving the glass at the mess around you.

“Well, after you were so articulate in your intentions today, I had a really good miserable think about it all and Josh and Sarah insisted I take the day off,” you finish your drink.  “Then I went to the estate agent’s and asked them for a month’s grace on the rent.”

You notice how his eyes followed your glass up and down. “That’s my second,” you report, “in case you’re nosey.”

“What’d the agent say?”

“Well, Sam’s right.  This is a declining industrial town.  There’re tons of rentals around, and I’m a good tenant, so they said yes.”

“Well played-”

“But I’m using the month to look for somewhere else,” you say and head off for the spare room muttering “somewhere the fuck away from this.”

Dean steps around to the boxes stacked about.  They’re all different sizes, mostly appliance boxes you picked up out of a store’s dumpster on the way home, all with ‘GW’ written on the top.  “General wares… green waste…” he mutters to himself before calling out “What’s GW stand for?”

You answer from the wherever you are, “Good will.”

“That’s a lot of good will,” he says.

“Sort of.  I need to get outta here.  And since I _have that choice_ , I will.”  He listens as he picks up the lids, peeking at book titles and crockery you’re sending off, nothing he recognises, nodding to himself in approval.  “So I thought, if had to up and leave today, what would I take?  This is all the crap that would be left,” you reappear in the doorway and sweep your arms over the room in bitter sarcasm.  “I have boxed up all the fucks I do not give.”

He’s paused looking at you, and yeah, you do look fairly hot with your hair like that and your short-sleeved henley, all sass and heat. If only you weren’t so hurt and that it wasn’t his fault.

“I mean, obviously I’d just take clothes, in that case, but I mean I’m knocking it right back.” Dean’s not even listening to you, just taking a proper last look at you from this distance.  “I figure I’ll take the couch, the bed, any electricals I’ve used in the last year, four of each from the kitchen cupboards and a few suitcases.  And that’s _if_ I move into an empty place.”  

He lost a moment at the end there.  You don’t just look sexy, you _are_ sexy… he’s almost proud with it, but then he’s already gone and cut you off.  He moves around to stand in front of you and clears his throat.

“Y/N… What I said.  Before.  I think my main point was that you’re better off without me. You know, this,” he means the packing, “this is good. Fresh start on your own and all that.”  He’s standing between the kitchen bench and the back of the couch and his hand lands on the blanket hanging over its back. He’s slept under that a lot.  It’s a good blanket… “You’ll be better off.  Safer.”

He’s trying for calm and concerned.  Really trying.  It takes some of the air from your fire. “They’re a lot of better ways you coulda said those things,” you say. “Nicer ways.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, finishing his drink and putting the glass back on the counter. “Probably.” He’s avoiding a feeling.

“Look, I can see you wanted to get the job done but it wasn’t convincing so much as hurtful. If you’d just talked honestly-”

“It was a bit rough,” he nods. His frown is over done, almost sad. “But sometimes you just gotta-”

“No you don’t,” you scoff, tasting your hurt again.  “You really don’t. I didn’t know which parts you really meant and what was true. And you- you were terrible.  Such a- a real Mean Dean.”

He stops and licks his lips, considering you, then looks at the wall beside you.

“Why can’t you just call me an asshole, like everyone else?” he asks. “Like I deserve.”

 _Because I love you._ You feel your face flash warm and sour, a pleading tilt breaking out across your features without permission.

Dean reacts so clearly, like he’s been slapped by reality, and you see his apology wash over him.  He has a moment of regret before he looks down to collect himself for a few seconds, then tries again.

“Okay.  Y/N… We could… _probably_ find something for you to do,” he confesses. “And there is room. But the risk to your life…”  He takes a step toward you, wanting to take your hand again but also half expecting you’ll reject him from hurt. “You’ve probably met more monsters than you realise, but with us you’ll know every damn one and exactly why they’re there. You’d become a target, Y/N.  Your life would be at risk just from association.”

“Really? I’m safer out here than with you?”

“Yeah. Right now you could still be just someone we saved. But if you come with me, or if we start something,” now he collects your fingers, holding them lightly, just a little bit of contact, “then you’re with the Winchesters. It’s a big deal, with the worst monsters and, to be honest, we don’t have many civilian friends left.  Well… none. None that close.”

You look down at his hold and add your other hand to the mess. You end up with his hand between yours, hot and dry, feeling callouses and patches of scar-tight skin.

“I can’t risk it,” he shakes his head a little as he reminds you both.

It’s hard to focus on his words with him so close. Neither of you liked being at odds for very long. Being angry at him feels as wrong as his thoughtless effort before. Usually, whenever you’d gotten to this place, hugging and comfort were quick to come and now it’s exactly what you can’t have - no warmth, no one in your arms, no _sweetheart_ or _baby_ or _I love you._

“…I took the kids to visit your parents once.  Anna and John cornered your dad and she very seriously asked him to confirm or deny whether Danger really was your middle name. And he was just, stone cold, ‘Yes ma'am, named him after Mary’s momma.’ …Anna was all,” you squint suspiciously to demonstrate, and chuckle a little.  Dean’s eyes crinkle and glint over his sad laugh.

You realise you don’t think of them so much anymore, not when you look at him.  That part of the dream seems smaller, fading almost hourly.  Now, you think of him and the way he made you feel, the ways you made him happy.  In a second, your sweet nostalgia slips away and you long for relief, for that familiar contact. “You could really do without me that easily?” you ask, the words small and hopeful.

“No.  Not at all.”  He takes your fingers into his grip.  “Not in the slightest.”  

You’re tired of the talking, talking like this, like you didn’t know each other.  You just want things to pause, just wait here while you’re together and touching and not choosing anything, just hold this moment of the two of you being like a couple again.  Hold it long enough until it’s called staying.

You’ve unconsciously leaned forward, far enough for him to lean too and your forehead lands softly on his lips.  He nuzzles the top of your head by millimetres and you rock the bridge of your nose up into his chin, breathing each other in.  This is the closest you’ve been since the warehouse and you’re craving it enough to cheat.  All it would take is a little step forward and maybe he’d wrap his arms around you…  Then you feel him lift his head and you look up to see, just as he’s looking down.  Your mouths bump into each other and you gasp at it, tightening your breath as lips catch again. He presses, dry, warm and soft, his nose by yours, and the weight of his want increases against you.  If you could only see how hopeful you look, and how sorry he is already.  

You’re still.  It’s a kiss you shouldn’t be having, stolen from common sense, and both of you are pretending that if you don’t move no one will notice the infringement.  The feeling, the smell, of the other’s skin makes you turn inside yourself, blocking out _should_ and _but_ and _caution_ and _reality_ and wrapping defensively around the _this_ and _have_ and _real_ and _**us** …_

He breaks it, saying  “Imagine if,” then puts his lips to your forehead again. “Imagine you had to choose between keeping Anna safe and keeping her with you.”

You recognise the feeling he means, when your child is threatened, like being forced to drink a cold cup of panic.  You open your eyes, watching his throat wrench a swallow, and you drop your jaw to breathe.

“See?” you say, quiet and crisp with sadness, “…you coulda said that.”

His chest sucks itself back, then heaves large.  You feel your chin quiver and think you’ll soon be unable to control yourself.  You tilt your head back and Dean drops his.  Maybe he thought you were offering a goodbye kiss, or some sort of throwaway comment, because your speaking seems to interrupt him.  

“You think I’ll be okay without you,” your voice is breathy.

“Yeah, sweetheart.  You’ll do just fine.  Much better off without me,” he croaks.

 _Sweetheart…_ you wince at the sound, such a cruel, tempting flashback.  “Because you’re a god damned bastard,” you say, like it’s a question.

“Yeah, I am.”

You close your eyes, tears already overflowing, and say “Maybe sometimes… maybe you are an asshole.”

You don’t see his face wince with bitter remorse, or his aching _Don’t say that baby_ eyes, else you’d have taken it back in a heartbeat.

Instead, you look up in time to catch his mouth turn down in acceptance, the slight nod, ready to take any punishment for doing this. He presses his lips to your forehead again, squeezing your hands while mumbling “You take care” against your skin. Then he pushes away with a kiss and turns, walking straight out of the house like the door opens and closes itself.

You pack the rest of your things drunk on saltwater and whiskey.


	12. Ch.10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has decided that you can’t be around him. Unfortunately, for him, you always are.

#### Dean’s PoV

I am so far away.  

Half the time Sam’s voice doesn’t break through whatever my brain is doing.  It’s just up and left reality again, all by itself.  

It’s been days.  I keep looking at the kitchen sink.  It’d be too high for her.  Well, actually, probably high enough that she wouldn’t have to bend over to reach the bottom, but the bench is high.  And she’d complain about the cool here too.  It’s perfect for me and Sam, probably a bit cool for her.  But then she’d be getting around in that huge white sweater Mom knitted for her.  Mom made the small size but didn’t realise it was a men’s small.  I loved it when autumn would blow in and she’d wear the ‘frumpy’ gear, just around the house, before the heating was turned on for winter.  She called them frumpy, and yeah they were baggy as hell, but I loved getting hints of her form beneath them, like my own secret.  Maybe later pushing up the hem of that thing when it was just us and revealing her hips and belly, all core-warm and soft.  Could pretty much fit myself in there too.

I feel like Sam knows what I’m doing.  He eats everything angry because that’s when we’re together and I half ignore him while I’m far away pretending that Y/N kept the imaginary sweater my imaginary not-dead mother imaginarily knitted for her.

I think of her chatting with Sam too, spending lazy time and getting to know each other, learning the research.  And because I’m a special shade of special, I’m pissy at him for not realising how happy he is in my imaginary thoughts, as if I’m giving him an actual gift.  Ingrate.

Right now, though, I’m in my bachelor boring room.  Twice now I’ve walked past one of the larger ones and looked in and I need to fucking stop this.  Fuck.  I’ve never let something like this get to me so bad.

* * *

 I knock on Sam’s door, hard enough to hurt my knuckles and he jumps.  “We need to do a hunt,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I know,” he says.  “There’s nothing.”

“What?  Nothing?  At all?”

“Pretty much, except for things near the coast.”  He’s at his desk and flipping through pages.

“Well, c’mon man! Let’s go!  A hunt at the beach? Let’s go!” I know I look more desperate than enthusiastic.

“Really? You want to be that far away?” he leans back.

“Yeah! Sure!” I say, but my nod fades.  

He’s peering at me. “What about a cold case?” he offers.

“Yeah! Yes!… You reckon you could pick one that gets us out of here? Like, today?”

“Yeah man, I’ll find something.  But you know…”  He takes a big breath and stands.

I really don’t want to listen to him right now, but I’ve been such a dick these past days that I pin myself to the spot.

“Dean.  I think you should call Y/N.”  Wow. I did not expect him to say that.  “Maybe, when you hear her voice, you’ll realise you’re not so attracted to her anymore.” Would not. “Which would be a relief.”  Wouldn’t.  “And if not, I think you should explain what you had with Lisa and what happened to her.  Let Y/N choose.  Let her see what she might be facing if she chooses you.  And, you know, do it over the phone… so you don’t…”

Yeah, okay, douche bag.  “I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.”

He does that quick shruggy smile, like, he’s tsk’ing on the inside.  “Good.  Coz if you keep on zoning out on me I’m going to start hitting you.  Can’t tell if it’s a stroke or epilepsy or what.”

An hour or so later I get a text from Y/N.  It just says “Hi, this is me from Sunday” with a new address afterward.  It’s in a town closer to the bunker, not that she knows that.  I look it up online, check out the street view, the condition of the apartment.  It’s upstairs, one of six, small, looks fairly solid.  I want to text her to salt the doors and windows, wonder if I could sneak over to do some invisible ink sigils and almost punch myself in the head about it because I won’t goddam _fucking stop!_ She is **gone**.  Past tense.  Fucking think of someone else and don’t think of it as cheating _just do it._  Do it properly before I can’t see what’s real.

* * *

 

“Hey, there’s a cold case in Wisconsin. Literally.” Sam’s poking his head into my room. “Waddya think?”

I start some sort of performance with my face while I think of a reason for no. I got nothin’.  “It’s pretty late already.  ‘Bout ready to turn in.  I think I’d rather-”

“No problem,” he does a knowing, tired smile. “Not gonna get colder. We’ll find something else.”

 

_Smooth.  Fingers splayed on ribs.  Hot palms sliding, pulling on the soft parts, sliding down to hips and pulling, pulling them hard against a want-warm belly, slotting together.  Humid breath and catching lips on tilt tightened skin and nipping kisses.  Sucking kisses, tongue licking through and pushing skin, pressing pulse, shallow moans for the taste and rough tongue on bones and dips.  Hair against ear and cheek, hot breath on dry and pale, lap up the lobe and tooth it ticklish.  Kiss behind and smile for the nuzzle.  Hands hold and brush and colours waken._

_Slide, slide, smooth the limbs, into and through corners, heavy and rolling, slide over hard and soft planes, into hot darkness, carding hair, cupping hair, noses huffy and nudging, foreheads hello, noses do-si-do and lips.  Plush thick lips on lips, ridge edge red and flesh edge shiny, pressed and muscular.  Cupping hair and feeling wetness, mouths for tasting and saying, everything at womb temperature.  Breathe into your breath and knock teeth, pull your softness close.  Press the bones, press with hardness to show how hard it all is.  Give and share.  Nerves sing high and asking.  Find and have.  And ache, and cure.  And have._

 

* * *

#### Your PoV

It’s two weeks to the day since you fell from the bindings and felt Dean’s actual hands on your skin.  A week and a half since he put on his ass hat and walked away.  Four hours since you realised you’ve been playing fake it till you make it, and a cup of coffee since you decided that’s good enough.

The apartment is stark, almost dreary.  Last night, you noticed everything you brought with you was something from the dream.  Like some sort of hyper-literal memento collection. The Build Your Dream Life starter set.  When you went to sleep you thought, _Well that’s just the stuff I like, that’s why it was there and that’s why it’s all here now_.  But, after a night of emotionally exhausting recollections, you woke wondering why the hell you’re doing it to yourself.

You keep looking at the text you sent Dean, even pulling the screen down to refresh sometimes.  Which feels pitiful, but at some point you actually take heart in his lack of reply. If everything was hunky-dory surely he’d have bounced back some indifferent, platonic thumbs-up.

So this is it.  This is your starting point.  And it is a little bleak, but you’ve already made a few friends, and there’s Luke next door, who is _impressive_ to say the least.  He seems to be looking at you sweetly.  You think you should probably try…

At least it can only get better.


	13. Ch.11a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just, don't ask me about my chapter titles.

#### Dean’s PoV

Okay.  I’ve done it.  I stopped photoshopping Y/N into every room, spare chair and routine we have.  I’m looking ahead to me and Sam figuring shit out and getting on with what we do best.  We went on a hunt - a rugaru in Minnesota.  Good work, nice and neat.  Came back to everything right where we left it.  And just, kicked back with a good drink and took it easy.

Good is as good does, right?

Twice now Sam’s started a conversation about How I Am.  The second time, I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt, then he thought I was crying ‘cause I kept rubbing them better.  He thinks I’m sad enough to cry.  And I’m all ‘Are you serious? It was a pretty djinn dream, what’s to cry about?’  And he says ‘You just separated from your _wife_ because you care about her, What’s _not_ to cry about?’  It’s like, I swear, he was sent here to fuck with me.  I point out how we didn’t choose each other, Y/N and me, how the djinn probably made us like each other to make it ‘perfect’; Sam then lectures _me_ about how even induced feelings are real enough.  Like I don’t know.  Like it wasn’t me who promised myself to her and then pretended I didn’t.

Then he fucking Dr.Phil’ed me, like… he says ‘Describe her in the nicest terms you can.’  So I do, just to prove I can talk about her and be unaffected, right?  ‘How much did you hold back?’ he says.  And I’m like, ‘No, I don’t need to.  A lot of women are like that Sam, I didn’t say anything special.’  Goddamn does my head in.

So I spent last night wondering why I’m not actually sad.  I fell asleep and had another not-actually-a-story-just-a-whole-lotta-sensations dream.  It’s like the whole thing happens just under my skin, and it wakes me every time.  No, actually, it’s like the part of me that lived the djinn dream is trying to do it again, get all my senses to replay what happened, but it doesn’t work so well without being under the poison.  Like I’m not drunk enough to enjoy the tribute band.  But it’s still a good dream…

And if I’m honest, I know why I’m not spiralling towards suicide over this.  I don’t flashback to her bringing me lunch and the garage guys being jealous, I don’t imagine her here or how she would fit in, not anymore.  I imagine me on her doorstep and I daydream about what I would say.


	14. Ch.11b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday is for moving heavy things.

“What are you doing here?!” It’s not what you expected you’d say, were Dean to show up, but here he is, in the midday light, looking surprised and hopeful.

He almost steps forward to cross your threshold but hesitates, then doesn’t, just says “Hi.”  

“Is everything okay? Is Sam alright?” you worry.  

“Uh, yeah.  Yeah! He’s great.  Everything’s fine,” he frowns it casual and waits.

“Oh.  Okay,” you say, confused.  He seems like he’s concentrating so you check once more, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he assures.  “Everything’s peachy… how are you?”

“I’m fine,” you smile.  He smiles back, a little relieved, a lot nervous apparently.  “Come in, come in,” you usher and move aside, holding the door for him.  He steps in and waits for you.  “And you, you’re well?” you ask.

“Uuuh… Yeah,” he starts, then stops short.  Behind the front door lays the kitchen area, marked off from the living room with a bench, much like your old house was.  There’s no dining area, and you can walk through the kitchen to the bathroom and bedroom, but the whole thing is a bit smaller.  It looks a lot smaller, incidentally, with Luke sitting at the bench.

“Um… Dean this is Luke,” you say.  “He’s a neighbour.  Luke, this is Dean.  He’s…”

“I’m an old neighbour,” Dean adds helpfully.  

Luke smiles and stands offering Dean a hand.  You watch Dean’s expression carefully and feel all sorts of things - surprise, hope, dread - as he watches Luke stand tall and smile broadly and you can tell he’s just… shitting himself.  He pauses, a contained looked of dismay or panic about him.

Luke is tall like Sam and looks like Captain America’s brother, the one who quietly became a fireman.  He’s blonde and blue eyed with an easy smile, like he hopes you’re not intimidated by his size ‘cause he knows he’s kinda big.  And while you know full well that Dean’s ticking off all Luke’s apparent qualities, Luke’s assuming Dean just doesn’t meet guys who are bigger than him that often. It happens.

“Would you like a coffee or something?  I have cookies,” you say, bustling past to put the kettle on.

Dean’s unblinking gaze swings over to you.  You’re bustling.  You only bustle when-

“You sure you’re okay?” you check again.  

“Yeah, a coffee would be great, thanks,” Dean says, coming to life again.

You make the coffee and pull out the cookies, nothing said for the moment.  He looks around the apartment and thinks it seems like half your stuff got lost in the mail.

“So, Dean, what do you do with your days?” Luke asks amiably.

“I hunt,” he replies, with a little too much emphasis, and clears his throat to take it down a notch. “Head hunt.  I’m in recruitment.”  

He catches your look, something from under your eyebrows wondering what the hell made him say that, and takes a deep breath.

“Nice,” Luke replies.  “Must be nice to match up people with the right job, help them be happy with their work.”

“Uh, yeah.  It’s pretty fulfilling.” Dean nods.  “What about you?”

“I work for the metro fire brigade,” he says, finishing off his own coffee.

Dean’s face drops ever so slightly. “You’re a fireman.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Luke admits.  “Just sound like a jerk when I say it straight up.”

“You don’t sound like a jerk,” Dean says, practically disappointed.

“I got a job,” you say, seeing as Dean probably came to visit you.

“Yeah, hey, hi!” he smiles, leaning a hand on the countertop.  “That’s great! Doing what?”

“In a bookstore,” you grin, hoping to see him happy for you.  “It was one of those meant-to-be things.  I was looking in the college section, went back two days in a row, and the owner and I got talking and she said she’s looking for an assistant to take over the store in the long term.”

“Holy crap!” Dean bursts.  “That’s… perfect.”  And he smiles and swallows all at once.

You head over to the lounge room and collect one of the few boxes labelled ‘random crap’ and bring it back to the bench.  “It’s great,” you say, opening the lid and sifting through the contents.  “It’s a gorgeous little store.  All the locals love it, so I’m pretty keen to keep it as is.” Dean’s nodding along with your words.  “You know, if it ain’t broke.”

“It is a feature in town,” Luke confirms.  “And everyone will love Y/N as much as they do Mavis.  You’re gonna love it,” he says to you.  “The people are just great.”

You smile at Luke, and then at Dean and he is smiling but it’s plastered on. “What’re you doing?” Dean asks, nodding at the box.

“Oh, I,” you stop, realising you haven’t found what you were looking for.  “I just assumed you came for something you left behind.  Sorry, we went out last night.  I’m a bit fuzzy.”

At that Dean leans back.  He puts his hand in his pocket and pulls back just far enough to leave the triangle of conversation, running his mind over what ‘we went out’ could mean.

Luke asks Dean “Did you know how hard she can go?”  Dean considers that to be a very poorly phrased question for someone who’s trying to not be a jerk.

He runs with it though.  “Ye-heah.  I’ve seen some of Y/N’s better performances, a few dramatic mornings.”  If he wants a pissing contest about who knows you better, it is on.

“Well, last night was impressive.  Not only is she a mean whiskey drinker, she can dance,” Luke grins.  “I was embarrassed for myself.”

“Ooookay,” you say.  “I’m just glad I was with people who can still respect me.”

“Hey, I’ve been serenaded by nude toddlers at 4am.  You got a long way to go before that happens,” Luke laughs.

“You have toddlers?” Dean asks, perking up.

“Yeah, I got two boys,” Luke replies, softening a little over the topic, which is just all manner of endearing.  “They’re with their mom this weekend.”

“You mean they live with you most of the time?” Dean clarified.

“Yeah, she went off to Denver with her new husband-”

“Wait,” Dean’s checking the story, incredulous, “She ran off with a guy - what does he do?”

“Real estate mogul.”

“Some real estate moron and left you, a six-foot-four fireman, and two boys in a picture perfect town.”

“Um, yeah,” Luke laughs again.  “I suppose that’s about it.”

Dean looks almost pissed off.  You’re not quite sure why, but it’s mostly because the situation leaves a vacancy so perfect a djinn couldn’t have planned it.

Luke’s phone vibrates, and he groans when he reads the text.  “Chris can’t come,” he says.

“Oh really? Work?” you sigh.  “Chris is Luke’s brother,” you tell Dean.

“Is he a fireman too?” Dean asks flatly.

“No, he’s in the national guard,” Luke mutters, texting a reply.

Dean glares at the wall.

“Hey, you think you could give us a hand?” Luke asks Dean.

“The movers ran out of time,” you explain.  “The couch is still in the garage - you know the fold-out?”

“Is that why your car is on the street?” Dean asks.  Trust him to notice that.

“Yeah,” you smile.  “Would you mind helping Luke bring it up here?  There’s a muffin in it for you.”

“Sure! I’ve had my cookie - I’m gettin’ a muffin!” he claps.  “Show me the way.”

As Luke heads down to the garage Dean pulls you back a little, quietly asking “Why are you treating me like a guest?”

“Wha- You-,” you gape at him, “I don’t know what else to do… You said goodbye.”

You can’t watch him do that face, like he forgot what was in that conversation, and can’t believe you have to explain yourself.  You leave him to blink at the doorway while you catch up with Luke.

It’s two flights of stairs from the garage to the apartment, with a landing at the first floor and a platform outside your door at the top.  The frame of the fold-out bed makes for a heavy couch and you try your hardest to not smile at the two of them pretending it doesn’t weigh a fucking tonne.  They shuffle up the stairs, Dean going backwards and leading the manoeuvres, Luke taking a fair bit of the mass.  You’re uphill from Dean, ready to guide if he needs it, and he tries not to think about how he got himself between you on purpose.

Luke’s done this before, having helped his ex move out, then helped his brother too.  So after the third suggested instruction - perfectly good and sensible ideas, mind you - Dean’s feeling a bit overshadowed by your new friend.  He doesn’t respond well.  By the time you’ve finished the rest stop at the landing, he’s looking pretty dark, even from behind.

“Luke’s a funny name,” he says, with as little strain in his voice as possible, taking each step one at a time.  “It’s spelled like puke, but we don’t say _Lyook_ do we?”

“Oh _Lord,”_ you mutter softly. “Let us pray.”

“Yheah, I suppose,” Luke puffs a little.  “That’s what’s cool about names though.  It’s _your_ name, you know?  You decide how it’s said.”  You all step up, and step again.  “Like, I suppose, Dean is spelled almost the same as Sean.  If you wanted you could just say,” he drops the baritone, “‘Yeah it’s pronounced _Dawn_.’”

You nearly bite off your own lip. Watching Luke’s easy smile, you place a careful hand on Dean’s back. After a few tight seconds Dean grumbles “...and he’s funny too.”

They shuffle in, put the couch against the wall and before Dean can push his knuckles into his lower back, Luke announces “OK, I’m gonna go get the cushions,” and bounces down the stairs.

Dean leans over and whispers harshly.  “You couldn’t because the S is made soft because Sean is from a _different language._ That’s why-”

“Dean-”

“You can’t roll a D.  It’d be like _D-D-D-Dawn,”_ he scowls.

“Holy Shit, Dean,” you whisper back.  “You started it! Go get some fucking cushions!”

You fill a jug with water, overfill it even, sloshing water onto your white t-shirt in the process. As the guys come back up with their arms full, you call before going to change “I’ll be back in a tick - there’s water on the counter. And all on me, so.” You leave the door from the kitchen _mostly_ closed.

Dean finds the glasses on his first guess and pours himself and Luke a drink and while he does you text him: Don’t leave. I’d like to talk.

He sees the notification and says “Uh, sorry man, it’s my brother-” pointing at his phone. Luke waves him okay as he drinks.

 **Dean:** About what a dreamboat Luke is? I’m about to ask for his fucking number.

 **Y/N:** Don’t you dare! I’m in with a chance!

Through the crack in the door you see Dean grin, the profile of his cheeks popping apple-high, but it disappears with a deep breath.

“So, you got any children?” Luke ventures, having waited till Dean’s pocketed his phone.

“Uh, no. No kids.” Wow, he thinks, I haven’t actually said that aloud in a while.

“And no wife?” Luke checks.

“…no,” Dean confirms, although it still feels a little like a lie. “Just a career and a brother.”

“Ah well, at least then you don’t have to go through a divorce,” Luke shakes his head ruefully. “Sorry. I have another hearing thing tomorrow. It’s on my mind.”

“No, hey, I’m sorry man,” Dean says. “Leaving you for a real estate douche is rough. Hard to compete with money.”

“Ah, I think it was more the telling her I’m bi,” Luke confesses.

Dean’s a little surprised but then “Wait, that means you picked her out of an even larger pool of people than if you’re straight!”

“Ha! Well, she wasn’t thinking of that… More like wondering what I’ve been doing to find out…” he shares. “Which was nothing. I just… I just realised… at some point.”

“Damn.  Two kids and all. She’s a loser,” Dean scoffed to himself. “Sorry,” he adds.

Luke smiles to let him know it was fine and says “Look at that. I’ve gone and told you my life story already.”

Dean shrugs it off, wondering where you’ve gone to. You’re still listening behind the door.

“Don’t suppose you’re um, if you play that way too?” Luke asks, a hopeful, shy smile on him.

 _Oh shit!_ you think. And for a moment you realise maybe Dean wasn’t joking before, maybe you don’t know this about him. You’re pretty sure he’s not but in your panic you scramble into your room to find that henley top Dean likes and hope it doesn’t stink too hard. You keep an ear out for the tone of conversation.

Dean’s stunned for a moment. “Oh shit. I’m sorry man. No, no I don’t-”

“Sorry. I’m kinda new to the whole-”

“Nah it’s fine!”

“Sometimes guys flirt really differently. And I’m rusty. I’m still-”

“Yeah, nah, no it’s fine. Sorry if I-”

“You didn’t! Not really. I was just checking.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“…gotta be brave sometimes.”

“That you do.” Dean points, “You got it in spades.”  He nods and licks his lips thinking back to how much he actually looked at Luke, adding “Sorry. I can see how that might’ve happened… I just thought you were here for-” he thumbs over his shoulder to your room “And I was a bit-”

“Yeah, I was. _Would._ Definitely. But she got rather distracted with you… we both did… Sooo yeah… It’s cool.  No rising at the crack o’Dawn for me.”

They drink, and it takes Dean a moment, but he spits his water a little when he catches up. Which is when you decide to come back in saying “You forgotten how to swallow?”

“Oh my god,” Dean groans, wiping his chin. “You’re both trying to kill me.”

Luke’s bouncing with a silent laugh, then climbing off the seat. “Hoho! Okay, I gotta go get the week’s shopping done.”

Luke sees you’ve changed - into a plaid shirt, since the Henley nearly growled at you - and smiles again, a sparkling thing that says _You look nice_ all on it’s own. 

You’re honestly not clear on who the biggest loser is here, but you’re giving him a kind face too and you share the few steps to the door, Dean a bit behind.

“Okay, well I’ll catch you during the week sometime,” you shrug.

“Yeah, you take care,” he says the leans across to shake Dean’s hand. “Really great to meet you Dean.”

“You too man,” he replies, tucking a nod. You can tell, just from that interaction, that they didn’t swap numbers.

“Bye Y/N,” he says and leans down to kiss your cheek. It’s warm, pressing, and his eyes smile at you all the way there and back. Dean watches it happen, pressing the balls of his feet into the ground and folding his tongue over itself - anything to keep himself from speaking.

“Bye,” you say.

The door closes and you and Dean are there, hands soon in pockets, trapped in each other’s company.


	15. Ch.12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean just came to set everything straight, you see.

Now you can look at Dean without distraction and see him here, in the same room as you, looking like that guy you thought you married.  Looking real.

“So Luke’s nice,” he says, “Good to have a guy nearby to… you know.” He shrugs encouragingly.

 _Seriously?_ You glare at him incredulously. “To _what?”_

“Keep an eye out,” he says, like _What else would I mean_.  But you stare at him so long he digs his hand deeper into his pocket, like he might fit himself in there too.

“You gunna let Lovely Luke jump your bones, Dawn?” you ask.

He tries to look annoyed but his words are stuck between promoting Luke any more and his tenacious jealousy.  He ends up just waiting for you to ease off.  You sigh and head for the kitchen. “I swear, the only thing standing between you and bisexuality is a decent batch of compliments.”

“Oh there’s a bit more than that,” he comments, watching you go by.

“So, why are you here?” you ask, opening the muffin box. _Feel like twisting the knife a little more?_ , you think to yourself. “I mean… It’s not to see how I am, is it?”

“ _Yeah_.  Yes.  Kind of.”  

Your face says you’re not tricked.

“That, and…,” he shuffles and takes a moment, mustering honesty.  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve found it hard to, uh, move on… and …uh, forget you,” he winces because he doesn’t mean _forget_.  He keeps trying: “And you seemed to think I was wrong.  Sam suggested I should tell you what it would be like if you came back with me, so you can see….”  He’s talking to your back, as you sort things in the kitchen, and he loses momentum.  He didn’t prepare a proper reason for you because he knew the whole way here that he’s come to remind you both why it shouldn’t work.  Wouldn’t work. Why he can’t say that aloud is a mystery.

You’ve pulled out two muffins, put the box away, and now stop, saying  “So you told me you didn’t want me, then you said goodbye to ‘keep me safe’ and now you’re back to say goodbye again… but with more words.”

Dean winces.  “Y/N, that’s not… “ He clears his throat and shifts his weight.  “I just… you didn’t seem convinced before, and I don’t like it when we don’t agree.  I’m explaining,” he gestures, “about how much better off you’ll be.”

“In person.”

“Y/N-” he sighs, pleading.

“Well, it’s a mixed message, is all,” you sigh back.  Why would he care what you think if you were meant to never see each other again?  “Meanwhile, I’m realising I don’t have two chairs that face each other.” You walk past him and stand in the middle of the space. “This place is a shit hole.”

“The floor is fine,” he says and takes his muffin to sit near your feet, back against the couch. “And it’s not a shithole.  It’s just… The worst place you’ve ever stayed.”

“Oh. Well then.”

Dean sits with both legs bent, the left foot under his right knee.  You sit about two feet away from his shin, crossing your legs lotus-style, and watch him peel the wrapper from his muffin.  You think back to when you saw him sleeping on the couch a few weeks ago, and are reminded how delicately his fingers can move, and how near he is.  As strange and exciting as it felt to have Luke in your company earlier - with no Dean and even no Stuart - this is just loaded. You feel like you’ve snuck your boyfriend in through the window. Except he’s not your boyfriend and he doesn’t want you, apparently.

You don’t expect any conversation till he’s finished eating, but you do notice he takes a deep breath after the first bite.  He catches you glance at him.

“Why have you got a muffin?” he mumbles.  “Don’t remember you moving no couch.”

“This one’s for the heavy lifting to come,” you say.

He squirms a little and makes another joke, a bad one. “…You and your damn baking… s’all I can do to not kidnap you back to the bunker for this alone.”

 _Kidnap me!_ Your mind blabs it so quickly you take a small gasp and touch your mouth to make sure the words stayed in. Dean watches the gesture and absently licks his lips.

And that’s all it takes.  His nearness, a few gags, licked lips and you’re back where you were a fortnight ago, a fortnight and _one day_ ago, thinking of the kitchen sink… Inside your stillness, everything vibrates.  The things you did together, to each other, during the djinn dream were excellent - perfect, of course - and the dreams since have been vague and frustrating.  Him merely suggesting such a thing is more vibrant than anything your brain has offered up.  Right now, it’s like the feeling has shoved you square in the back, and you want to get to know him like that all over again.  You unconsciously rock yourself side to side, muscles itching for contact.

Then you remind yourself of reality.  It’s going to be hard to put that aside and listen to what’s coming, and from that blooms the familiar sorrow and ache of when Dean last told you, so intimately, that he would leave without you.  Your food loses some taste and the afternoon begins to look torturous.

“So tell me again why, this time, today’s the last day I’ll ever see you,” you say. “Tell me why I’ll be so happy about that.”

“Because I suck.”

“Ugh, _Dean_ -”

“No.  Y/N,” he says sternly.  “The package I am, truly, it sucks.  These are the constant things in my life: sleep deprivation, injury, alcohol, bad food, monsters, isolation, loss, demons - and I mean literally, and they don’t fuck off - Angels with god complexes, threats made on Sam’s life, me being bad at compromise and seriously, I’m a moody son of a bitch some days, forever on the road, and the trauma.  Y/N, if you stayed with me you’d be alone a lot, keeping house, learning about fuck knows what gory stories and hell tales, and that’s without getting into the risk.  Every time Sam and I would go out on a hunt, we’d leave you behind and _hopefully_ come back, most likely needing a massive patch up from you.”

 _There_ , he thinks.   _My craptastic life._  Your expression is rather intense and he’s taking it as a good sign.

“You mean I’d be like a mother, or a nurse,” you say.

“No,” he points at you, “No.  Don’t pluck out the parts that work for you.  Everything around them would suck the pleasure away.  And you would _worry_ -”

“I wouldn’t worry here though, coz all that stuff stops being true if I stay away.  And you won’t need me if I stay here.”  You’re using sarcasm already.

Dean takes a breath and focuses on you.  He didn’t expect an argument and, worse still, he thinks you’re not really listening.  He’s not thrilled.

“I’m just exploring both sides,” you shrug.

“Don’t,” he thuds.  “It’s a waste of time.  I’m telling you, Y/N.  Life for you would suck and you’d be taking it on by yourself a lot of the time.”

“That’s not new,” you tell him.

“You had people around all the time in-”

“That was a _dream_ , Dean.  What you’re describing is being compared to my life before the dream.  My life with Stuart.”

Dean blinks but keeps a poker face.  He’d forgotten that fact, but keeps on, leaning forward and stabbing the floor with a finger as he speaks.  “It may be your experience so far, but you’ve also got to compare it to the potential of this.  The bookstore and Luke.”

You carefully fold your muffin wrapper while you think _Yeah, Luke who hit on you._  “What else?”

“I’m not the guy you married in that dream,” he says.  He fills his chest and leans back on the couch.  This feels like something he has to face up to himself.  “I’m not a mechanic.  I’m not a 9-to-5-er.  I’m not… _happy_ like that… And.  And I have slept with a lot of women.  Like, a lot.  I don’t even-”

“Really?” Your curiosity is piqued. “You do one night stands?”

He nods, very seriously.

You wonder quietly.  “When was the last time you had a one night stand?”

“Aaaaabout 6 weeks ago? But seriously there’s, like, a senior class worth of last names I don’t know.”

You try not to but a giggle pops out of your mouth and you shake your head. “I dunno Dean.  If you can’t be a husband that doesn’t sound like the worst alternative.  I mean, it’d kinda be a crime against humanity for you to go to waste!” He stares at you, stumped by the compliment, and you say “What else?”

Dean sighs past your acceptance of that, rubbing his forehead, and offers another. And it’s a big one.  “You should know, …I nearly always put Sam first.  Ahead of me, ahead of everyone.  He’s my little brother and…”  

Okay.  This is a thing, and you can feel it.  “Good,” you nod, slow but sure.  “You’re family.  You should be able to rely on each other. You’re all he’s got.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, it leaves no room for anyone else.  We get used against each other and if another person came into the mix, I can’t-” If he keeps rubbing his face like that, his eyebrows’ll be gone by bedtime.  “I can’t imagine what someone could do to us if… I’ve had to choose between me and him over and over.  And I can choose to leave you to a life without me, but…”

“Hey,” you put a hand on his ankle.  “Are you trying to figure out how you would choose between me and Sam right now?  Don’t do that.  You came here to convince me, right?”

Dean’s looks at you and freezes, like he just heard a far away voice and wonders if you did too.

You give your hands  final brush and lean back, stretching out your legs beside him so your feet and touching the couch by his propped up leg.  As you settle in and get comfy you say “Tell me a story.  Tell me how you saaaaaved the woooorld.”

“We did,” he looks at you earnestly, “more than once.  But we also… well…”

So Sam was marked and poisoned as an infant, and John was a different man, lost and then saved.  When Sam was taken by that curse Dean went to hell in exchange for his brother’s life.  Your plan was to be close, maybe watch but not touch, except he starts talking about hellhounds, and leaving Sam behind, and your leg finds itself against his.  He talks a little about what he did down there - mostly sentences he can’t finish - and you fold yourself in, crossing your legs and leaning forward, hands subtly fishing. Eventually he matches you, letting you catch his fingers as he gesticulates, the digits hooking each other at the last knuckle.  Dean explains his part in the seals, the beginning of the apocalypse. He hunches toward you, head dropped as he confesses, and you hug your knees, ankles still crossed, to comfort yourself.  You hold his hand because he’ll let you.  If he’d lost control by an inch more you would’ve been hugging his head.  You let him talk without interruption and he lets it flow.

In the chapters about Sam taking Lucifer though, how Sam held him down, took him down, and won that battle, Dean’s admiration and love for his brother echoes.  When he starts to talk about Lisa and his year ‘playing house’ he looks up at you, taking your hand in both of his.

You listen to the bitterness Dean has about putting them in danger and he forgets, completely, about how he meant to use this story to deter you and frighten you off being with him.  Instead he talks in regret and segues seamlessly to how Sam came back without his soul. At the first mention of Eve, you stop him for the first time in over an hour.

“Do you think,” you ask, “you think Sam is better than you?”

“What, a better hunter?” he asks.

“No, just, more deserving.”

His eyes flit over the floor, over nothing, as he thinks your question over.  

“In your dream, in your perfect dream, you put your brother, who you love more than your own life, in a town far away and made him too busy and important to visit you, then scolded yourself for missing him.”

Dean chews his lip thoughtfully and looks at your hands together, wishing he could avoid the fact.  “I don’t know why that was like that.  I didn’t like it.”

“I know,” you say.  “I watched you not like it over and over.  I saw you love each other when he was there but you were never allowed as much time as you wanted.  You have a cracking streak of martyrdom Dean.  You’re practically masochistic with it.”

He sits there, thinking, feeling like he got it wrong.  His thumb is starting to rub your skin sore.

“Hey, it’s not maths,” you tell him.  “That was your subconscious.  You can’t screw it up.”

“Goddammit woman,” he gripes, fingers squeezing yours before letting go.  He gets himself up off the floor as best he can, graceful like a warm mannequin.  “You’re not suppose to be able to read my mind anymore.”

You notice him check his watch and you pick up your tablet saying “I’m gonna order some food.  Pizza okay?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Neither of you think it’s odd that you order for him, nor that he digs out some cheese and crackers from the kitchen, and not that he knows exactly where to find everything.  

He comes back to the carpet, helping himself to the food as he sits opposite you.

“Why the hell is the plate all the way over there?” you ask, almost having to crawl to reach it.

“What? It’s in the middle.”

“Of your lap.  Hog,” you say.  You’ve rolled over the cross of your ankles and as you lean on one hand it gives Dean a view of your cleavage, knees splayed.  He’d forgotten how you steal a slice of cheese before putting another on the cracker. You wiggle a bit at the good food.  You seem happy for a moment, and he realises he’s letting you forget what’s happening next.  He chews and looks down, reminding himself of why and what for, but these are nice easy moments, maybe the last, and he doesn’t want to let them go just yet.

When the pizza arrives you bring out a few good beers.  As you hoe into your first slice, Dean already on his second, you comment “This feels a little weird.  Just the two of us and pizza.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “I thought so too.  But we can just pretend we have the house to ourselves.”

You stop chewing and look at him, and after a few seconds he stops chewing too as he remembers what _we have the house to ourselves_ used to mean.  “Um… “ he begins, and your eyebrows almost slide off your face as you wait to see whether he’s seriously suggesting you have sex tonight, or if he’s going to say there will be no sex tonight and say it right now… but he avoids your gaze, finishes his beer and says “Is there a dessert with this?”

You twitch a bit. “Is that a euphemism?  ‘Cause I do not know the answer.”

And he says _nothing.  Jerk._

It occurs to you that dinner will be finished soon, and maybe the bottle of red will be emptied, or another beer drunk, but at some point Dean will make to leave.  In the gaps between your talking, you can feel the last song approaching and you’re beginning to prepare yourself for all sorts of things - maybe a summarising reference to the dream, or a couple of compliments and _you’ll be fine_ type statements; or maybe he’ll just wimp out and do a peck-on-the-cheek _C’ya sweetheart_.  If he does that… well.  You doubt throwing yourself at him would work.  Might slow him down a little…

His phone buzzes, making you peek up from your thoughts  - “It’s Sam” he says reflexively - and he starts a reply.  He seems relaxed.  In fact you’ve both been relaxed in each other’s company.  Tired maybe, but not gearing up for what’s meant to be coming.  A holiday of denial perhaps.

“So, you um…” Dean frowns at his phone, using the distraction he help him say what he thinks he should.  “…yeah, Luke is a dish,” he nods.

You sigh.  You don’t want to talk about Luke.  “Think it’s pretty obvious Dean,” you groan.  You can’t believe it, but you’re not even trying to hide your opinion.  It seems so easy when he’s flat out said no - what’s left to lose?

“What is?” he says.

“I’d take you over two Lukes, easy.”

He pauses his texting, looks at the floor, a little smile, then “…two Lukes?”  He pinches up a cheek.  “Aren’t you supposed to say, like ten? Or a dozen?”

You tongue some food out of your teeth and remind him. “Dean, that’s _ten firemen_ … who look like Luke.”

“…Yeah, fair point.”

“I’d run into a burning building for you though,” you shrug, munching the last crunchy bits of crust, inspecting your food.

Dean chews back his smile again.  His gaze flicks over to your hands, up to your face a moment, then hides.  “Yeah, I think that’s the problem,” he mutters.

You run your tongue inside your cheek.  “Seems you’d need someone at least a little bit brave,” you mutter back.

“Not stupid brave.”

“Like you.”  

You’re as bad as each other.

You wipe your mouth and close the boxes, rearrange yourself.  “So, how long did it to take to get here?” you ask.

“Uh, 6 hours,” he answers automatically, back to messaging Sam.

That makes you sit up.

 _Six hours._  

He’d have left first thing.  He had a quarter of a day to call and tell you he was on his way.

You’re not aware of what runs through your mind as you lean forward to take a good look at him, so you’re not sure how long it is before you speak again.

“Dean.”

“Yah,” his head pops up.

“What… did you…” It isn’t coming.  He sees you’re halfway through a thought he’s missed and focuses in on what you’re saying, puts the phone back in his pocket.

You purse your lips together, feeling sure enough to be brave, then say  “I’m gonna go pack.”


	16. Ch.13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have a quiet discussion with Dean and gently suggest the possibility that he might be wrong.

“What are you packing for?” Dean asks, turning and standing to follow you.

“The bunker.”

“You’re not coming with me, Y/N,” he warns.

You glance at him sideways as you clear up. “Yeah I am.”

“Hey!” he gets closer to you, raising his voice. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?!”

You turn to face him, hoping your hunch will articulate itself real soon.

“You are staying here,” he barks.  “You’re not safe with me.”

You speak carefully.  “You could’ve done this over the phone, or by skype.  You could’ve emailed and skipped the argument altogether.  But you came in person, to do something you’d already done, with no notice.  So I’m packing.”  You’re getting some traction now, and your force increases with your confidence.  

Dean starts to look angry.  “You deserved a proper explanation, Y/N, so I came.”

“Bullshit.  You didn’t call ahead, _again_ , and you’re _here,_ not at a motel, because you decided to drive all morning to come and tell me your stories”.

“Those goddamn stories should be saving your life, Y/N.”  Keeping his voice down sounds more like growling.  “They’re terrible.  You’re supposed to be scared of them!”

“I am! But if you wanted me to come with you, you’d have told the same stories the same way.  Dean, you need help-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says, throwing a hand out and turning away.

“No, just listen, okay?  Walking across your threshold is not going to kill me and I get that you think you and Sam will go out all bloody but I _almost did._  I met you because I wasn’t safe, I helped you save Sam, and I can do the stitches and the food and the cold compresses and the research-” Dean starts to pace now, redirecting his need to interrupt, “-because yeah there’s a flipping bookstore here but you’ve got a library and a _need,_ Dean.  It feels like helping someone save the world should be important and I dunno, more important than picket fences.  And you won’t let me help because you think I’m going to be killed by it-”

“No, not just killed,” he says, lunging back to you, “ _worse._  So much worse.”

“If you had had a third person, your ability to recover, to move on, to call for backup and supplies, Dean-  Okay! Okay-” he’s started to glare at you, something threatening, bordering on furious.  “I know you do okay as it is-”

“We cope _fucking fine_ without you,” he grinds out.

“Coping is fun, isn’t it?”

“Fucking, we do not need you enough to risk you, to isolate you like that and take you from-”

“ _Nothing_ , Dean.  I have a job _opportunity_ and almost a friendship-”

“ _Luke_ is more than a friendship!”

“I don’t fucking _want_ Luke!” you snap.  “What I have here is not much.  I’ve done isolation, I’ve done repetition, what I haven’t done is be useful.”

“You see this?” Dean lifts his shirts to show you.  “This scar?” he points to a faint line near his belly button, almost buried beneath a thatch of marks across his torso.  It shocks you, the body you remember as so perfect now looking so damaged.  Your fingers lift toward him as he rants, and your face feels hot. “That’s from when I was _17_.  I was just a kid.  I’ve got scars everywhere, Y/N,” you fight back sadness as he talks, “and there’s only more coming.  You think I got them from being nice?”  He comes at you, just a short step, backing you up to the wall to scare you again.  “You don’t even know what I’ve done, Y/N,” he bites lowly.  “You don’t know how terrible I’ve been.”  You see his eyebrows fight to stay angry, to not plead, as he realises this sounds like another reason he needs you.

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks but he steps back, defiantly out of reach.

“You wanna see mine?” you offer, and pull up your shirt.  He looks over your chest, bust and belly, all just as he recalls - smooth, unblemished and, to you, pathetic.  “I’ve got nothin’, Dean.  I haven’t lived a damn day of my life.”

He comes back, puts his hands on your unmarked waist and drops his head, jaw tight, almost puffed. “Why are you arguing with me?”

“You wouldn’t be taking me from anything, I’d be coming,” you say, gripping his arms.  “And I know more pain is on its way, I know.  Please let me be there for you.”

His hands squeeze and pinch and he holds you at this distance, keeping you from moving into his frame.  He lets his forehead land on your collarbone and roll into the curve of your neck, dragging his cheek up the side of your head and pressing against you.  The contact distracts you both - the feel of his stubble over your ear, the smell of your hair, the plane of his cheek, the flick of your eyelash against his skin.  You both know every inch of each other, but your bodies have barely met.  It takes dragging seconds to get focus back and stop collecting sensations.

“You’re the only person in the world who really knows me, cares for me,” you say softly.  “And the only reason, really, for me to come back with you is because we want to be together more than we want to be apart.  The rest is luck.”

“Getting what I want is not important enough to test our luck, Y/N.  It’s risking your life.”

“My life isn’t actually that important either Dean,” you tilt your head, letting your nose brush into the short hair behind his ear.  “Not as it is.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.” He sounds so hurt.

“Neither do you, not for sure. But you didn’t drive six hours, unannounced, just to put your mind at ease. I think you wanted me to convince you. You came here so I’d change your mind.”  Even as you speak, you’re beginning to think he doesn’t want you enough.  Maybe he came just to see if you could do it.

Dean picks his head up and looks at your face, runs the pad of his thumb over an eyebrow and presses the dry heat of his palm to your cheek, your ear, letting you turn into it.  Your ears thump, maybe blocking out the rejection he’s going to do all over again, and a lick of anger flashes through you.

“You’re asking me to let you watch and take the fallout, put you in the path of danger.  Watch me be surly and injured, watch us fail. Wonder about us when we go silent for days, and the stuff we can’t tell you… You’re asking me to put you through so much, as though it isn’t abusive.”

You feel everything about you quiver and brim, straining under the weight of your hope, high on your own innocence. “Yes.”

“What if I disappear for a year… or turn into something else.  What if something takes you, Y/N?  I know your imagination is good enough.”

“They’re maybes…  I want to be there.  I said I’d be your hurricane or your sun…” you say and suck in a shallow breath. “I still love you, Dean.  I don’t know what the magic words are that will make you choose me again…  But if you really want to keep me safe, first you have to keep me.”

He keeps looking at you like you’re an old photo, or an emptied glass, or whatever it is he can lose himself in while he agonises over memories and choices.  Although you try to keep looking at him, he says nothing, and you weaken enough to drop your gaze to his chest, his buttons, eventually to your thumb as it strokes his arm.

He takes a long time, long enough to make you worry.  Long enough for you to almost begin your own surrender.  You skirt thoughts of _He doesn’t love me enough. I’m good and all, familiar and nice, but he doesn’t want me enough to take the risk._

_Okay then._

_Right._  

You pull your hands from him, look down and lean yourself away, slide out from his hold and slowly move your feet, find the kitchen sink, rinse something, tidy numbly, fumble things through blurry vision.  You’re too upset to feel humiliated or angry.

Dean sees you there, the way he’s seen you a hundred times before, dozens of them interrupted by him reaching for you just as he did that last morning, pressing you together so he can feel and love and have.  He was yours and you were his.

“Why didn’t you fight me last time?” Dean wonders quietly.

“Honour and obey,” you mumble with fat cheeks.

“Sorry, what?” he asks gently.

“I was doing the ‘honour and obey’ part.  It felt like I was… I trusted you knew best.”

A thought flickers through him, something determined and tall. _I am the last thing between you and whatever hurts_

Dean walks over to you, and you wait for what’s next. He digs into his pocket and hands you a post-it with five words written in Sam’s script, one of them crossed out and replaced in Dean’s:  beautiful  soft  smooth  gorgeous   ~~sexy~~ welcoming

“What.  What’s this?” you ask, sad and flustered.  

He points at each word.  “That’s your eyes, hair, skin, smile and legs.”

“Okay,” you sigh, unable to really see what’s written, near exasperated.  “Why the list?”

“Those are the words I used to describe you.  Sam wrote them down,” he explains.

“Why did Sam write them down?”

“He was trying to prove a point, he asked me to describe you.  But, when I said those things I held back.”

“‘Beautiful eyes’ is holding back?”

“Yeah.  Sam was all ‘Well, you coulda just said colours’, but he doesn’t know what I left out.”

“Yeah, okay, why are you showing me this?”

He takes a deep breath and swallows, and you look up to see something about him surface.

“Your smell.  You smell like home.  A home.  I hate you being away, I’m terrified you’ll get hurt, but I haven’t panicked about you leaving because you feel… constant. Or you did at least, till you opened your door.”

“What’d I do?” you wonder.

“You had no idea why I was here, and that… uh disconnection.  It felt …unnatural.  My brain just went _What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you at the bunker?_ …And then fucking Lyook was in your kitchen - why do I keep finding men in your kitchen?” He runs his fingers down your arm, gathers your hands into his, and steps a little closer.

“Because you keep leaving a gap.” You’re pleading with him to give you a place where you belong and are wanted.  There’s no one who can do that more than him.  

He’s near enough now that his breath cascades over your face, fingers laced and warmth mingling.  You look at his little list of words and wait for a proper sign of commitment, or anything.  A whole beat comes and goes, then another, and you think you might just break down in front of him.

Dean takes a deep breath and runs his fingertips over your hair, absently tucking the strands.  It’s a gesture intimate enough to make you look up in hope.  He slides his palms up and down your arms, praying you’ve got some forgiveness left.  

You flash back to the moment he started his vows, how he looked like it was just you and him, like he was ready.

“I would never have chosen between keeping Anna safe and keeping her with us,” he says.  “I would’ve found a way to do both.”


	17. Ch.0.01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day Dean saved you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early prologue. Set in the first day of your djinn dream.
> 
> ***For those following along, there are two other prologues I'd posted on tumblr and have now posted here, they're in the order they were posted, amongst the other chapters. Check the Chapter index to find them.

You sat at the table for four, tidying the napkin dispenser, glancing at the door occasionally.  There was nothing left for you to check - your hair was fine, make-up was subtle, your shoes matched. And now the napkins were perfect… Then it was 5 past late, and you found yourself staring at the door and the large window beside it, trying to not drum your fingers.

Stuart was late, which wasn’t unusual but maybe something had held them up… you really could’ve done with even an extra 2 minutes though.  What a week.  You’d just started at the hospital and they were renovating so you were learning things you’d probably have to unlearn,  You felt so tired your feet hardly touched the ground; so tired in fact you wondered if you should’ve put off the date.  Even your vision was a bit fuzzy.

He swung in the door, eyebrows high and easy, happy to see you, and a bemused smile spread on his face as you stood.  You didn’t usually stand to meet him.

“Where are your parents?” you asked.

“He-hey,” he said, bouncing a kiss off your mouth.  “Oh, yeah, sweetie…” he sat and you did the same. “They changed their minds.”

“What? But we-”

“Don’t worry about it.  Hey, you know they’ve changed the BBQ chicken one here? Put pineapple on it. You wanna try?”

He seemed happy, and wanting to try something new was good. You’d been trying to encourage that recently, in all areas of your relationship. “Yeah, why not? I’ve never had pineapple on a pizza before…”

You ordered and talked about his work at the print shop, about what he’s gotten up to with his friends. He listened to you talk about work, how you felt like it’s daunting but amazing and rewarding. He nodded politely, and you smiled thankfully because he’d never really been interested in your work.

At the end of the meal your curiosity got the better of you. You’re feeling uncharacteristically safe.

“Stuart, why did your parents change their mind? I thought they wanted to meet me.”

“They do! Babe, they do!” he assured. “It’s just, you know, a pizza joint’s a bit casual.”

“But you said to keep it low key,” you reminded him. “I booked this last week; why didn’t you say then?”

“Didn’t want to hurt your feelings babe!” he explained.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mumbled and in your good-natured effort to exhaust the benefit of your doubt, and your remaining energy, you started to get confused.

“Back in a minute,” he said and trotted off to the bathroom.

You frowned at your plate and managed your frustration. It was hard to get here on time after work, and he didn’t seem to appreciate how tired you were. You’re pretty sure, on paper, he’d kept them from you but you weren’t sure why. You thought you were reasonably happy together, improving him a little bit, being good yourself.  You thought parents generally liked you.

You took a deep sigh and racked your brain for how to salvage the evening.  Then a fragrance entered your mind, something entirely distracting and enticing. Aftershave, sweet sweat, a guy’s- a _man’s_ musk and hints of metallic and earthy things. It’s calming and distracting all at once.

“It’s none of my business,” said a voice over your right shoulder, “but I feel like I should save you.”

You snapped around and saw… someone you had no right to be looking at. _Sweet mercy_ , you thought, _it’s the man of my dreams. And I’m on a damn date._

Desire and dismay threaded through you, and while you thought time stood still for a moment it was actually that he’d frozen too, staring at you, working moisture back into his mouth.

His table was next to you, so while you could look a little to the right to talk to his dinner date - someone absent for the moment - you had to hook your elbow over the back of your chair to properly see this guy.

“From what?” you peeped.

“Seems he’s a bit shy of the next step,” he said carefully.

“Oh well… “ you said, waiting for your brain’s hamster to stop staring… “He doesn’t deal with change all that well.”

The guy stared a little longer.  He’s wondering if he’s going to be civil and say what he should say, or just be honest.  “I think if I really liked someone I wouldn’t put off introducing them to my folks.” He broke his gaze away and looked purposefully at his beer, because staring can be creepy.  “Shit, I’d probably line up an accidental meeting on purpose,” he muttered and took a sip.

A tall man appeared and sat opposite your new friend, almost thumping onto his chair with an easy “Hey, what’s up?”

“Hi,” you smiled. “I’m Y/N.”  

He took your hand for a shake saying “Sam. You ‘n Dean talkin’ ‘bout your date?”  Sam seemed to have had a few.

You glanced over at him thinking _So you’re name’s Dean,_ and he chewed his lip at the discovery of yours.  You couldn’t recall when these guys arrived, or even whether they were here first.

“Uh, yeah, sorta.” You looked back at the bathroom, hoped Stuart would take his time.

“Um, Y/N,” you turned back to Sam as he spoke, “I know it’s none o’my business, but I’m engaged right? I made sure my parents met Jess within a month.”

“Wow. Really?” you said. Suppose they’ve been sat here all along.  “A month.”

“Yeah, heart in my throat the whole time,” he said and smiled shyly at Dean who was grinning back.

You chewed your lip and looked at your hands.  You felt like time was speeding up, racing you towards Stuart coming back and finishing your chat with these guys.  You kept glancing at Dean, unable to think clearly enough to create more conversation.

Sam slapped a napkin down in front of you, a row of digits scrawled in pen.  “There’s his number.”

“Sam!” Dean scolded.  “She’s on a frikken date man!”

“Yeah, with an idiot,” he told him.

“Dude!”

You stared at the napkin and blush furiously.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Dean rushed. “We’ve been planning his buck’s and he’s had a few drinks-”

Sam got up to go then leaned down, tapping the napkin as he spoke, ruddy-cheeked with hoppy breath. “He’s my big brother, complete jerk,” - somehow the way he said it made you smile - “but worth a dozen of that guy.”

Dean began gathering him up saying “Yeah, okay, come on sasquatch,” and Sam smiled as he let himself be manhandled away.  

Dean looked at you, hesitating, then goofed “I don’t even know what a dozen is.”  He got caught on your laugh, high-cheeked and sunny, and it went straight into him.  He smiled too, walking toward the counter, head turned your way, letting Sam slowly pay for their meal while he kicked his shoes, licked a lip in for a nibble and watched Stuart return to your table.

Your boyfriend plonked down in front of you and you folded the napkin closed, tucked it into your pocket.  Behind Stuart’s head, your peripheral vision spied Dean cracking into a bright smile before looking down and herding Sam to the door.

“Did you want to get dessert to go?” Stuart asked, possibly in an effort to be suggestive.

Dean threw a small wave from the door as he left, and you tried not to look but it only meant you kept glancing back, seeing Sam through the window, pointing at his brother mouthing _This one_ , and watching Dean chew back a smile before swatting Sam’s hands away.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Stuart asked, turning around too late.

“A bird.  …You know, Stuart,” you looked down, and felt strangely able.  It was as though Dean was hiding behind the corner, just out of sight, patiently waiting for you to catch up.  You didn’t feel as though you’d missed that boat at all.  “It’s a big deal that you didn’t invite your parents tonight.”

“They changed-”

“It’s pretty hard to believe that they’d skip meeting your girlfriend of 6 months because of the venue,” you said plainly.  “And if they would, then you set it up to fail.”

Stuart rocked a little nod, giving away that he knew you’re right, and looked around the table in search of a good excuse.  “I… didn’t want to rush things,” he said solemnly.

“Six months in is not rushing things.”

“We’ve only been having sex for two months.”

“Oh, Stuart.”

“Look if they think we’re serious, they’ll just start on me about getting a better job.”

“Oh my god,” you sighed, almost shook your head, and soon he seemed to give up on the pretence.  You chewed the inside of your cheek and looked out the window behind him, looking at that spot where Dean disappeared, imagining him leaning on the brick beside it, waiting for you.  Everything seemed to pause for you while you waited for Stuart to deal.

“I don’t mind paying,” you said, trying to wrap things up.

Stuart winced, did a snippy cough like he’s insulted.  He didn’t protest though, just mooshed his mouth around while he tried to think of a consolation…  “Well, maybe, when your work gets easier and, like, you find a bigger place, we can have another go.”

“No, those things won’t help,” you said, and leaned down to get your bag. “It’s all you.”

Stuart didn’t seem that insulted by the fact, maybe a bit pissed you’d figured it out.  He just decided to finish the day, got up and moped himself straight out the door.

You headed for the counter to pay and pulled the napkin out of your pocket.  As the change was hitting your palm, you had your phone to your ear, turning up the volume to hear it over your heart.

“Hello?”

That voice.  “Hey, um… sorry, we just me-”

“Y/N?” Then you hear Sam in the background. (“Oh my god, is that her?  Go back! Turn around!”) “Get off it Sam!  Sorry- How you doin’?”

“Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have a car would you?”  You guessed, from the low rumble in the background, it was a good bet.

“Yeah, sure.  You need a ride? Wa-” Then Sam again “Give me the phone! Turn around!  Hi Y/N,” he says, smooth like a relaxation tape.  “We’re gon’ be there in two shakes, you jus’ hang tight, sit back- you need us to beat him up?”

“No!” you laugh.  “He’s gone.”

“Really? For good?” he asks excitedly.

“Yes,” you smiled.

“He’s gone!” Sam shouted. (“Ow! Shit! Don’t hit!” grizzles Dean.)  “We’re on our way, Y/N… And I’m totally gonna wait in the car!”

“That’s probably best.  How much have you had to drink?”

“Llllots.  Ssso much.  Jess is beautiful.  You know I had a feeling about you two,” he chatted.  “Somethin’ jus’… I could feel it.  There was magic in the room- We’re here!”

“Are you always this silly when you’re drunk?”

“Okay, he’s gettin’ _outta_ the car and _walkin_ ’ to the pizza shop-”

“Sam.”

“Oh he looks good, Y/N.  Nervous.  So cute.  He’s tryna walk like he’s got this.  He’s shittin’ bricks. I can tell.”

“Yeah I can see him Sam, thank you-”

“He’s going in!”

“Thank you!” You lowered the phone from your ear but didn’t close it, catching “I lost visual!”

Dean strolled over to you, only a few steps and took a deep breath.

“Would you like to talk to Sam?” you offered your phone.

He pulled a sideways smile, and you just watched, watched him move and smirk and take the phone with one hand, put the other in his pocket while he held the phone to his ear and looked over your shoulder, then at you, and then got distracted while he talked.  You just watched.  

“Sam-”

“YOU’RE ALIVE! You’re safe!  Oh thank god.  Okay, good luck buddy.  You’re a beautiful flower.  I’m gunna take a nap.” And he hung up.

“So,” he said, “you need a ride.”  He smiled at you like he hadn’t said a thing, like he’s thinking of asking you out, like you already said yes.

“Well, you said you were going to save me,” you smiled back.  “You going to finish the job?”


	18. Ch.14

With his grip on Y/N’s upper arms, Dean tilts her, bends her, just enough to kiss her, full and dry, and he gives.  It’s far too simple.  For all his regret and hope and fear and gratitude, all of them dipped in sorry, in this he’s trying to give her something to end and begin.

She inhales, sucking air through her nose and when he’s sure she can’t possibly take in any more, he stops, letting his face press against hers, chin to nose, and feels her warm relief wash over him.  Y/N grabs handfuls of his waist, dropping his note between them, and squeezes him in her hands to finally feel the presence of his body, his corporeal self with hers.

Dean slowly kisses her eyes dry while he gathers her up.  His hand lands on the back of her head, broad and warm, holding her against him as his forearm tucks up between her shoulder blades, his other arm wrapping tight around her middle. She feels enveloped and swims in him, his fragrance and mass, everything triggering memories so sharply, while they get closer and closer, taking in freckles and lashes and creases and colour.

That first kiss threw him.  He thought he’d know this, expected it would be like a reunion or make-up sex (he imagines) but it’s not.  It’s not even like that accidental press-of-the-lips he stole in her old house.  It’s _really not._  It’s like he’s been listening through the wall, all this time, using stupid _I can’t believe it’s not butter_   …This really is going to be the very first time they meet like this.  He’s holding on tight.  

Meanwhile, Y/N had no illusions about the impact he would have.  For the past fortnight, every touch of his has been a weak echo of the electric affection she recalled from the dream, and every time it’s like all her nerves stared at the lucky patch that made contact, whispering _What was it like?_

He tilts her up and ducks himself down, pressing lips fully, to feel deeper, shifts to tuck it snug, and tastes her. _It’s like butter,_ she thinks.   _Rich, hot butter.  That’s what._    What she remembered was brilliant, but in actuality it’s sublime.

This kiss, this is Dean’s breath out; a long held sigh so deep he almost sleeps a second.  He has Y/N, all of her finally in his hold.  Relief drops through him, some kind of rest already coming just from having her to lean on.  He has her.  He can have her. 

“I’m gonna take you home, okay?” he says, knocking his forehead against hers.

“Yes please,” she nods.  Another deep breath and she feels like she might be able to speak normally.

She pushes her palms up his chest and slides one up and back to hook her arm around his neck, the other cupping his face, reaches her chin up so their lips can touch again, and clings.  The smell of him is so strong and known, now in stereo, full and sweet and here, that Y/N feels like she can suddenly use all her lungs and begin living properly and she wants to know what that will feel like now.

For moments they kiss and hold and bend. It’s so much for them to take in, all at once, faces and breadth, textures and shades, all these aspects their minds seem to know of but haven’t had, only learned in theory.  Y/N grabs and pulls, cupping his head and sliding her fingers along the curves of his bones, feeling him like she’s had a hunch all this time that his hair is actually that soft, and his lips really are that full, and his neck is so very strong.

She breaks the kiss but doesn’t move away. “You’re here,” she breathes. “You’re real.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.  “You too.”  Now he starts to kiss her with intent, tasting over and over again, wetness meeting and tongue beginning to reach.  Y/N recognises the heady press and pull of his lips, the gentle suck and embrace.  She remembers what she said in the kitchen that last morning: Fifteen fake years and two torturous weeks later and she still has no weapon against his kiss.   She moans as he reaches further into her, realising that her defence against this is now worse than ever.  He remembers that moan, and he recalls those words too, and she feels him smile against her.

Y/N opens her eyes, happy lips almost touching, and Dean’s already looking at her, adoring and calculated.

Never has she seen anything as wantonly sexy as him gazing at her, as close as can be, then closing his eyes, and all of him moving so subtly, so sinuously, to kiss the ever loving fuck out of her.  Her fingers slip slack and she loses her level as her mind flicks through a thousand kisses that never happened - not that first one in the snow when his mouth was hot and new, not that too-short smile-stretched smack at the altar, and not the one that almost bruised her when their John was born. She can see now that none of them were real.  And it doesn’t matter one bit because he is kissing her, with the whole of his body and all his desire, and she won’t wake up from this.

Dean takes his time, doing his best to overwhelm her with attention, then slips into pleasing himself, feeling and tasting and listening to her sigh.

When he lets up, he has to pull her with him.  He looks at her blushing lips and smooth throat as her eyes eventually open and try to work together again.  She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth and stares at his, reliving the feeling, not realising how such a thing will affect him.

“Jesus Y/N,” he groans and dives in again, bouncing fat, wet, kisses off her mouth, her cheek, then nudges her chin up with his cheekbone to get into her pulsing corners, tasting the skin as he pulls and tilts her so he can nibble under her ear.  “I’ve thought about you so much,” he mumbles into her neck.

“Mmme too,” she says, her voice raspy from the stretch and pressure.  She runs her fingertips over his scalp and lets her head fall back for him.  “Oh Dean,” she sighs, “so much better than I remember.”  He shudders all over, groaning and squeezing because voice and skin are finally connecting with his favourite recollections.

“Do you know what I was going to do to you, before we were interrupted?” he asks, “That last morning?” He eases off a bit and turns them, shuffling so her butt is against the sink.  “Did you ever finish that morning?”

“Only every night,” she answers and strokes her open hand from ear to chest. “And half my waking hours.  Did you have a plan?”

His smile is so calculating and smug that she starts to laugh.  He leans down to kiss her, holding her still, and has a little conversation, “Hey, you’re laughing,” he says. “I know that laugh.”  
“It’s pretty special.”  
“You’re laughing ‘causa me.”  
“You bet. I’ve only ever laughed like this ‘causa you…”

Dean slides his hands up to her shoulders and back down to her ass, taking in her curves and dropping a little to scoop an arm under her butt to pick her up.  “Of course I had a plan,” he says smoothly.  He pulls her against himself and she hums to cover the gasp.  He can’t seem to stop grinning.

Y/N wraps herself around him and looks into his eyes, sharing all her happiness and delighting in his.  She clamps her arms around his shoulders and runs her lips over his ear, nipping when he nuzzles into her.  “And what was that?” she whispers.

He lifts her more and holds tight, taking her through the bathroom and into the bedroom.  “I wanted to see if I could make you come on my fingers before everyone got home.  The apples of your cheeks would go all hot, I’d feel them radiate afterwards.  Wanted to see how long that would last after our break was over.”

Her pulse increases a few knots at the idea of him being so close, actually inside her.  “I wanna see,” she says.

“See what, Sweetheart?”

Y/N grabs his head and turns hers so his lips are directly against her ear, where she can feel his breath over the shell and her neck. “Say that again.”

“See what, Sweetheart?” he repeats, indulging her, the bounce of the sounds tickling her hair, his bass thrumming in the back of her skull.  “What does my baby want to see?”

Dean kneels on the bed, drops them both down and they scramble back to get her head on the pillows.  He’s above her, on hands and knees, but she pulls on his the waist and wraps her legs around him.  “I’ve missed that so much, your names for me,” she sighs.  He knows what she’s talking about and looks sorry for it, nodding when she says “Don’t ever stop doing that, okay?”

“I won’t Sweetheart,” he drops down to kiss her and kiss across her cheek. “You too okay?”  She nods in response and he asks again “What did you want to see?”

“If everything is how I remember it,” she answers.  She slips a thirsty hand down to pull up his shirt and take hold of his belt buckle.  “Everything.”

“You wanna do that now?” he checks, fingers brushing her hair and cheek. “Everything?”

“Don’t you?”

“Oh hell yes,” he says breaking into a sparkling grin, “I’ll race ya.”  He pulls his knees up and kneels, his thighs lifting hers and her hips.  He works deftly at her fly and she giggles and fumbles to beat him, but he manages to knock her arms enough that he easily wins, eyes hungry and cheeky, and pulls her waistbands down while he shuffles back.  “Oh yeah,” he says, gaze fixed firmly on the soft underbelly and hair revealed. Coasting his fingers up the side of her legs, he quickly undoes her shirt for a better picture, showing her lacy bra, and drags his fingertips back down, over her mound, kissing the rise of her thighs.

Y/N watches in awe at his gaze devours her, a small part of her brain reflecting on how deprived her real sexual experiences have been in contrast.

“Baby, please, can I see?” he asks.  He wraps himself over and under her hips, kissing all over her belly, wiping his face back and forth to feel it, then slides down and gets himself level with her pelvis, squeezing between shy legs, while he waits for her to answer.

She blinks again at what’s happening.  “Yeah, if that’s what you want,” and runs her fingers through his hair a little.

Y/N is dumbstruck, her deja vu replaying with a string of curse words because Stuart never did anything like this.  Once, way back when, he reluctantly ‘gave it a go’ and declared it not to his taste.  And here was the actual man of her dreams doing, so far, exactly what she’d dreamed.  She’s bats away the self-conscious thoughts and lets him drive.

His hum is low and predatory as he settles down to reach her. Then he slows to nuzzle, smell, smile at her, and tucks his tongue into her folds for the first time.  He snuffles a little, working his way between the lips and sighs deep and satisfied, like he’s right where he wants to be.

Dean closes his eyes and takes it all in, the weight and softness of her legs, her heady musk and tang, the muted sweetness and how full she feels under his mouth.  He’s never wanted anything more, not just because he enjoys doing this, but because he wants to give her all the excellent things between them.

He licks and laps at her opening, then runs the point of his tongue round her clitoris, wakening the arms of it, the petals of the folds, and listens to her gasp and _Ah_!  He rubs his hands up and down her thighs, encouraging them wide, then reaches around them and over her belly to gently pull her open and work lightly over her satiny wet flesh, tracing the places he learned she’d liked.  

“Oh my god!” she squeaks.  “I was sure I made this up!”

Dean laughs and groans hungrily, full and deep against her bone.  She arches her spine, her body reaching for more, and grabs at his hair.  “Oh God,” she aches, voice deepened as she curls back.  Fingertips dig into her flesh as Dean revels in the sound of her surprised and aching beneath him.  Y/N holds his head with both hands saying “Oh God!  Dean!  Shit- _Dean!”_   and lets herself run with what he offers.  He looks up at her undulating chest, the colour and curves changing for him, because of him. He reaches under and threads a finger into her, pulsing with his tongue, then offers two and she responds wholly, knees bending, legs hugging, arm reaching up to push against the headboard.

He curls his fingers, stroking her g-spot and flicks light and fast with his tongue. “AAA-ng!” she calls out, gripping hard, pushing and curling as she pants, each breath sighing and climbing in pitch.  Dean nearly crosses his legs to keep from coming, just leans into the mattress and solidly _does not think_ about her lain back on their couch and what else he could do.  

Then he sucks a strong kiss onto her bud, snapping away and landing back on it, pulling and pushing.  Y/N cries out, loud and surprised, as her body responds like a dam wall’s been shot.  Her orgasm tugs thickly, shudders, and surges over and over as her muscles curl her tight.

Dean lifts his head to watch Y/N recover.  She has a hand over her eyes, shining lips the same colour as her shining lips, and she’s puffing fit to burst from her bra.  When she seems to calm, he starts kissing her inner thighs, then just above the hair and starts to work his way up her body.

“Jesus,” she sighs.

“You okay?” he checks.

Y/N wraps her hands around his arms and pulls him up for a kiss.  “Christ-”

“Yeah?”

“-I was so sure I made that up,” she breathes and kisses him with all the thanks she’s got, clutching his head, nearly mashing his lips with hers.  Quickly she’s pulling his shirt up his belly, and he breaks away to remove it, Y/N taking the moment to take off hers and yanks him down onto her so she can feel his skin.

Dean sighs a happy moan at the niceness of it, settling his elbows beside her shoulders so he can smooth her hair away, lean against her, kiss around her face.  “Just as beautiful as I remember.”

“You,” she muffles, feeling his back move under her hands, “You’re…”

“What, you okay?” he checks, wondering if his jeans are rubbing against her the wrong way.  

“If I say something nice about your body, you gunna turn into a cocky shit?”

Dean giggles against her, kissing again as he remembers how good it was to have a woman who made him laugh in bed for all the right reasons.  “I promise, I’ll be humble,” he says, ducking into her neck and lapping at her earlobe.

“There is no one, ever, I’ve found more attractive than you,” she tells him.  “When I was a teenager I had 102 posters of guys on my wall,-”

“One hundred and _two-?”_

“-And I’d have taken them all down for a postage stamp of one of your gorgeous eyes,” she says, and he pauses the kissing.  

“Or your the corner of your lips,” she continues.

He lifts his head to look at her and listen.

“Or your hand,” she reaches up to kiss him, open-eyed. “Or whatever this patch is called,” she says, running her knuckles over the softness in the front of his hip.  She leans up for another kiss, adding a lick of tongue, “Or your cock… though we’d need a few stamps for that.”

Dean cracks a smile, looking over her like she’s the winning lottery ticket.  “Who the hell can stay modest when you talk like that?”  He hopes he can remember her every word, keep them in his wallet.

“Can I pay you back?” she asks, slipping her hands down his body to the belt, nudging what’s inside.

“Mmm, maybe later,” he says, trying not to move against her knuckles.  “Would you mind if we skipped that for the main event?”

“Well, I’ve never heard you speak so vaguely, but I guess I know what you mean,” she says coyly.  Y/N runs her hands over his shoulders, feeling the distance and tucks her lacy bust against him, enjoying the cushion against his chest.  He works himself back and planks a little, picking up where she left off to get his pants down, letting her help.  She looks over his body from this angle, all his muscles busy keeping himself off her and getting undressed, and she can see, even through the scars, the wonderful kind of symmetry and working strength he has from top to toe.

“Holy shit,” she whispers.

“What?”

“It was so much easier to explain your body when it was a dream,” she sighs.

“Me? Have you not seen yourself?!” he asks, planking over her. “This? This whole package? I was sure I made _that_ up.”

Y/N has her eyebrows raised, thinking _Whose whole package?  …Holy crap._  His erection is bobbing between them as he talks, all modesty forgotten.

“Y/N, I’m gonna expand on that note at some stage,” he’s laying himself down along her, “in detail, eventually, but just… first… I’ve been saving these.”  He says a silent thanks for front-fastening bras and releases her breasts from the lace, watches them sigh free.  “ _Yes_ ,” he says and gets down, hands leaning either side of her chest and drops his head to a breast, nosing under the softness to take its weight.  They’re giving and perfect, matching the feeling to the many memories he has with them, filling out his image of her body.  Their size is just as he remembers before their John, but now the curves of her aren’t fuzzy and shifting.  She’s under him, in real colour, happily looking down at what he’s doing, smooth and warm and familiar, with breath and hope and gratitude.

Dean opens his mouth, watching her face as he lets her firm nipple flick past his upper lip and onto his tongue.  He laps it in, savouring the shape and feel and grazing the tip of his tongue back and forth along its peak.  Y/N responded so well to the way he’d tasted her before, all his hunches paying off, that he goes at this with relish and confidence.  Seeing how she can’t keep her eyes open, and how her legs squeeze around him, Dean’s pretty sure everything he’s learned to date is going to be on the money.

He flips over beside her on the bed and encourages her _c’mere_ to straddle him, holds her ribcage over his face so her fullness drops onto his cheeks, and nuzzles and nudges like a glutton.  Y/N leans over him, smiling down at the way he delights in her, the odd bright glance up, and feels close to giggling the whole time.  

He slides his palms up and down her waist, squeezing her hips at each pass, brushing her back, then pulls on her, asking her to rest on him.  Y/N slides her body down, then stretches her legs either side of his, nudges his erection into the hollow of her hip, and finds his thighs too firm and thick to balance upon.  Dean cups her cheek, kissing again and tries to get in under her chin some more but she pushes back, hooking the side of his jaw with her thumb, turns him and tickles and licks behind his ear and along what throbs, lavishing affection with sweet tickles.

Sometimes his palms slip lower, feeling the curve down to her thigh, and on one of those trips his hand stops there on her rump, grabbing and making the flesh bulge between his fingers.  He’s wanting the sensation so much he rocks her up and down, then moves her so his cock can lay straight, rubs her along his firmness, making her gasp with his grunts, and slowly positions her so their chins are meeting again and she has her fingers on his crown.

He thinks, if his cock knew flavours, this is what would be sweet, the sweetest.  A tailor-made taste.  He knows it won’t take much for him to lose it, and says “Wait up” before reaching for the side drawer.  He doesn’t miss a beat, but expects to fumble, so tingly are his fingers already.  Y/N plucks out a condom and Dean discovers the lube.  

“You want this?” he offers and she knocks his hand away saying “You kidding me?  I’m gunna need a fucking IV.”

Y/N takes the protection, tearing it open with her teeth and spits the wrapper away before he’s pulled her down for a grinning kiss, his chuckles swallowed up when she starts to smooth the rubber down, sliding her fingers up and down a few times.  She trips her fingertips over his hip bones, tugging on his shape, thumbing the dips and pale corners and dragging on the height of his thigh. His palms over her ears drown out everything but her pulse and his moaning “Fuck, those fucking hands.”

“Okay?” she checks.  He nods, puffing around the kisses and let’s her tilt him up, thread him into her before driving herself down.  The heat slides over him, like the front of his body has slid into molten caramel, and he hopes he’ll last.  She walks her hands down his torso, levering herself up to push him in, then closes her eyes and screws herself with him, grinding hair between them.

She can feel his reach into her body, the proportion of his length and demand of his width, and lengthens herself, tightening all the way up her spine.  “Oh…” she sighs, lips slack and tongue nudging her jaw.  He stops and watches her feel him, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, heel of a hand below his bellybutton, other fingers spider-light on his waist.  She rocks maybe an inch, makes a small circle.  “… _sweet_ heart.”

She keeps doing these little things of familiarity and Dean lets them warm him smug - _There she is,_ he thinks, _that’s her, the Y/N that’s mine._  And if he thought hard enough, he’d remind himself that it was applied and not sought, but he doesn’t care; he’d be a fool to let this go now, he thinks.  He has a bird in the hand.  In both hands, actually, and she’s swivelling his cock around inside herself while the shadows of her waist tease him, her felty flavour still on his tongue, and he thinks maybe this is what depth perception really is.

_I get to take her home._

Dean sits up, pulling her ribs against him, and kisses her wet, all tonguey and loose, imbalanced and knocking.  He rocks back and forth a few times, just to make her noisy, then holds her close and turns them around again, laying her down beneath him.  It’s a surging move, almost in one motion, the way he gets her flat, rolls back and pushes forward.  Y/N arches again and spreads her knees, tilts her hips to get him flush, and he does it again, this time laying himself down, hands under her back and head, kissing her lips, cheek, jaw, ear and burrowing down into her heat with all the weight gravity will give him.

Y/N takes advantage like he did, feeling as much of the back of him as she can, even though it’s such an expanse compared to her hands.  She starts pushing her hand against his hips, the heel of it driving the cheek down, asking for action.  Dean says “You got it gorgeous,” and moves against her, rolling her hips and beginning a rhythm. Soon it’s heavy enough to be a thump on her ass so Dean leans up to see her face and, yeah, better than ever.  

He drags a broad grasp down her thigh, showing her where he wants her legs, and she hooks her feet behind his waist.  Y/N moans sharply at the tilt and changing thrill.  A taste sparks from the way he spreads her flesh, the way her body offers such perfect resistance.  This suddenly feels the opposite of his memories - ethereal stories becoming more like tendrils in water as the present consumes them.  The opposite of his history, too, when nothing has ever actually been this deep.  He dives deeper still, wanting to feel all of her now that he can. 

Dean traps her with his arms, spreads his fingers to take all of each part they find - her head, her jaw, breast, shoulder, waist - keeps himself from squeezing too hard.  Her hold is getting tighter and scratchy and under his steady rhythm, he notices she’s frowning more and pulling often.  “Dean?” she puffs.

He pauses, in, and grunts tightly.  “Yeah babe.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he looks at her, only her cheek, eye and hair really in view.  “No, baby, that’s fine.”

“You’re not hurting me,” she says.  She writhes a little, pushes him in with her heels and he grunts shortly again.  “You’re being too gentle.”

“Really? I don’t wanna-”

“My bones Dean,” she rubs her hands over his neck and shoulders, cupping and pulling so she can kiss the hard-to-reach places.  “My bones have missed you, they wanna feel it.”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he muffles against her lips.  “Show me how you want it.”

Y/N pushes him off, his surprise covered by her saying “Up here” as she hurriedly pats the pillow beside her head.  Dean stacks a few pillows, gets his ass in place, arms long and reaching to follow her as she moves up and onto his lap, her fluttering fingers showing him the way again, and settles down, lips bitten and breath pushed.

Dean slips his hands up her waist and brushes them over her breast, plucking her nipples with caresses.  He thinks, maybe if he focusses on her, he can stave off his own orgasm just a little longer, but this dream come true situation is all sorts of sweet and hot and he’s just about forgiven himself already.

Y/N grinds again, just like she did before.  He strokes and tugs still, listening to her twinge with it.  It’s like her voice makes her lungs heave, which pulls on her waist, so she leans into her thighs and now she’s got a rhythm too, back and forth. Dean grazes the tips of her breasts and pulls a little harder, hitting a live spot that makes her _Ah!_ hard.  In response, she lifts her hips, snatches them back down and Dean’s whole body buckles.  She does it again, like she’s hitting her own g-spot and Dean grabs her hips, hoping to hold her still, forgetting to be gentle.

Y/N feels how much stronger he is this time and says nothing.  She wants the full measure of him, wants to feel his reach and force because he’s not just here and taking up space; he moves space around her, he _moves her_ , and she wants to take it, absorb it, return it to him so he knows how good he is and how much he’s got her.  So she doesn’t make a sound when he holds her bones like the flesh isn’t there.  Instead, she slams onto him again and bites her lip at how decadent it is to have him moan for her.  She starts to run her fingers in pulling lines, over his shoulders, tugging on the flanks of his rib cage, hooking her hand under his thigh, showing him how much she wants.

Y/N leans to kiss him, feeling his spit-slick lip and the saline heat of his face.  She grips the bed head and asks him “You like it this way, babe?” and thumps herself down.  “Can I fuck you like this?”

Dean growls _AAaah_ and sucks breath through a clenched jaw. He pushes his forehead against her face, an _Mmmm_ breaking from his chest.  “Yes,” he says, with all his teeth, and renews the grip on her hip to push-pull her on himself.  She obliges, snapping up and down with him, and he leads her through it one more time, hard enough for it to ache.  On the third effort, Y/N discovers two of his fingers now between their pubic bones, right under her clit.  

She gasps loudly “ _Hh_ -Ha!” and Dean hooks his hand around the back of her neck, holding her face against his as he says “Go, fuck me Y/N, good n’hard.”

Y/N moves her hips as high as she can, while he anchors her head to his, and cracks them back down to give him all her depth.  His waiting fingers send the impact onto her clit and it’s viciously good.  She gathers momentum, does her best to listen to his tight voice so she can please him.  Within seconds, though, she’s praying inside that he won’t need much more, each pulse tightening her nerves and twisting them high.  Dean starts to swear _Fuck! Fuck, baby! Y/N!_ and right when he starts the short moans, his grip on her neck lets up and she lets herself begin to flood. 

He grabs the bedhead too, fingers over hers, and then her ribs, bracing as he’s fucked with a fever that flashes and tightens.  Y/N’s orgasm is rattling, like her pussy might burst into water, and she has it with her eyes open, watching Dean give in to her climax, eyebrows tilted, lips swollen and voice aching while the heat in him gallops towards hers and he digs his heels in to send it to her.

He grabs her neck again, as the last of it catches up, and arches himself to meet her curve, kisses her in spite of the need for air, pushing his chest into hers and sitting tall so her arms curl around him and he can feel her hands on his skin again.  He flops them sideways, rolls them onto her back, so he can thrust the flickering waves of it into her, sucking her lower lip between his as he kisses and she yelps.  Fresh heat wavers around them as they start to slow and he lets his kisses slide off her cheek.

Dean holds her tight and puffs, his chest billowing over her, and Y/N feels his ribs spread under her hands while she the buzz recedes.  She looks at the horizon of his neck and shoulder, outlines his hair with her finger, and kisses around the bolt of his jaw, that perfect curve and shadow.  Over and again she watches her fingers on him, makes a multi-dimensional memory of her skin on his, and marvels at her privilege and fortune.

At some point Y/N notices how long it’s been since Dean moved.  His lips have been stuck on the muscle of her neck for a while.  She asks “You okay?” but he doesn’t answer.  “Dean?” she says quiet in his ear.  She caresses and waits and tries not to move.

Dean lifts his head and kisses the rise of her cheek, smiling at the heat he knew would be there.  She smiles back shyly and enjoys his fingers in her hair.  “Mmm, my gorgeous boy,” she says, and he gets to see her say that to him in her best colours.

Kissing again and running his thumbs over her features, Dean’s mind has been picking up thoughts around how it is they got here.  Thoughts he’d rather not have right now, but there they are, teased by Y/N calling him her boy.  

“You were my wife.”  His voice is low and raw.

Y/N exhales gently “…No.  I wasn’t,” with not a hint of defiance.  “Not really.”

“How is it…  We married each other, and that wedding didn’t happen.”

“Right.”

“Those things did not happen.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Not _nothi-_ …How do we explain this?”

“Well… there’s a difference between what’s real, and what’s true,” she tells him, skimming her fingertips over his brow.  She reaches up to kiss him sweetly and he kisses her back.  “Our wedding wasn’t real, but we were in love, I think.”

Dean nods a little, forming a new perspective. “Not real, all true…”

“Yeah.”

“Uuh God,” he sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head.  He kisses her squarely on the cheek, jaw, ear, and nuzzles his face down the muscle saying “You are all my luck.”

Very soon, they’re cleaned up and beneath the sheets.  Dean is wrapped around her with his nose at her hairline, a hand securely on her waist and an arm hugging her chest, kissing the bones of her neck.  He feels settled and steady.  “‘Night baby,” he tells her, biting his lip at the fact he gets to say this while he’s awake.

Y/N slips herself around to face him, tucks herself under his chin and, even though there’s always a spare limb, she’s determined to sleep here a while.  She kisses the curve in his throat, then the skin over his heart and nestles herself there, hugs him as hard as he hugs her.  “Goodnight sweetheart.”

They’ve got the smooth warmth of their bodies snugged up tight, under the covers, and they sleep together, again.


	19. Ch.15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning after hours...

Sometime around 3am, Y/N wakes Dean with her lips on his cock. She get things halfway there without him and by the time he’s fully registered what’s going on, his hands are already in her hair, cupping and hugging. “Uhh! Fffffuck Baby!  Shshsh-!” he gasps as she works.  Dean pulls back the covers to see her, prickling all over at the sight of her head dipped down to his groin, shoulders rolling, smooth hips high behind her, with all her skin grey and shadowy in the near dark. She gets him tight and full before really going to town and he’s curling, sucking in air, before the end.

He drags her up the bed by her armpits, wraps himself around her like his hands don’t work, smoothing thankful words and kisses over her face, his mind still thick with sleep and simple happiness. _Mine,_ he dumbly chants, _she’s mine, to hold, warm and hugs, mine…_  He opens his eyes and remembers where he is.  “…I can’t believe I get to take you home.”

“Mmmhmm, yeah you can get that at home soon,” she murmurs.

“Oh my god-”

“Any day of the week sweetheart,” she cups his cheek and hugs him back, “just ask. You’ve earned it.”

Dean stops moving and drops his head a little.  “You can’t say things like that… I’ll cry.”

She giggles and kisses him thankful but he picks up speed again and is soon woken enough to start looking for those secret sounds on her.  Laying face to face, they let their lips rest in touch and reach at times. He drags fingers over the curves usually hidden, knuckles his way into where she’s newly tender, and lays a palm over that plush patch, feeling how perfectly she’s a handful.

Reaching into her hottest corner, he edges his fingers to where they feel so big.  One of them slips deep, into the velvety flesh, feeling silken textures and teasing resistance.  He strokes what he discovers inside and crooks a little, listening.  

She kisses him, muffling her own surprise and thinks back to the noises she made back then with him, how perfect every time seemed to be and so how perfect she must’ve been for him.  When he went down on her before it was so visceral and hedonistic, she wanted to be brave. What could he see from down there anyway? That passionate fuck was something shared, and even then she held back her words. But this… She’ll be on display. Her self-consciousness steals her focus and she opens her eyes, pulling away a little.

This becomes the first of many moments when Dean looks at her face and hears her feelings in himself. He does know her, and on that fact he thanks everything that she fought so hard. Protection can be so shallow. Keeping the monsters away only takes a good wall sometimes, a line on the ground. But to keep someone from harm, you need to be with them so you can see when they’re vulnerable to the things unseen and be that line for them.

“Don’t be shy with me,” he tells her, “not like this.  You can give me everything.”  He knows it’s different when you’re the only one receiving, all the attention on you. He’s going to need her honesty in the future, and he wants to start that now.

Y/N barely nods, just swallows in a polite effort.

Dean kisses her full, rolling her back, and she slips fingers over his forearm and into his hair. He slides a slippery digit up, runs two fingertips between the lips, either side of the bud, and her breath skips.  Releasing her mouth, he keeps his face close, making it hard for her to clam up.  “That’s what I heard in my dreams, Y/N, the way I made you feel.”

“It isn’t the same,” she says.  “I don’t even know if that was always you.”

“I know,” he breathes deep and slides a knee over one leg, pushing the other away to open her up. “I think it was, but even the dreams since have been just… fuzzy soundtracks.  I don’t think we saw every part.”

“Mmm,” she runs her fingers over patches, up his ribs and along his jaw and he strokes her curly hair.  The way he’s winding her up is meant to be encouraging, but she still jokes evasively. “How do you not find djinn victims just… covered in jizz?”

“You know, that is something I’ve wondered,” he grins and moves against her comfortingly.  He looks at her still, his mind unmoved.  

She clears her throat and confesses “I’ve never really…  This is… kinda new.”

“You never…?”

“Yeah, but my fingers are small. And my mind remembers but it feels so… It was just a dream-”

“But what about…?” Dean nods indicatively, not going to say another guy’s name here and now.

“Terrible,” she shakes her head.  “Better off with a mutant carrot.  Clunky, no empathy-”

“Yeah, alright, you’re depressing me,” he groans and kisses her again to wash the image from his own mind.  In fact it takes a bit of work to not get angry at the fact.

“Well,” he murmurs, getting himself settled and comfortable, “I’m going to do what I remember you liked, start there. Tell me how I go.”

Even as she hums her nod, her lips are tucked into her head, hesitant.

“Sweetheart,” he says, “don’t hold back.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just you’re watching me, undistracted.  And I’m not the woman you dreamed of-”

“Yes you are, inside you are, and you’re far more beautiful in real life-”

“Dean-”

“Y/N you literally do not know how beautiful you are. You remembered yourself differently.”  She lets him kiss her as he explains.  “It’s subtle but I’m telling you: your brain got it wrong.”

She stares into the shadows, wrapping her head around the idea that her own subconscious sold herself short and lets Dean nudge and kiss, finally distracted as his hot breath gets over her ear. She come back to the present. “Uuuuh, I’m just… I’m sorry-”

“Do you trust me? I’m looking at you with my You Can Trust Me face.”

“No, I can see,” she jokes.  “And I do, but-”

“Okay then,” Dean leans down to kiss her neck, runs some pressure up and down her lower lips and she sighs in defeat. He hides his face in there, letting her get lost again in the slow ministrations he offers. His other hand cups her jaw, thumb stroking her cheek at times and she turns into it, hands squeezing what they find to show she’s okay.

He does just what he did before; cup, test, dip, push, crook and stroke. It’s as though he’s run a feather down her back, the way she arches into him. But still she only hums.

With the wetness drawn out he slicks it into her folds, circles and strums and when he pushes two fingers inside she starts to sound like she’s swallowing real words.

The hand she nuzzles strokes her cheek bone still, and Dean angles it so his thumb can brush her lips. With a steady gentle thrust below, he encourages her to kiss the pad, tipping the lower lip, asking for her tongue. She obliges and he moans, feeling her nip and gnaw in response. He pushes his thumb into her mouth, settling a knuckle on her teeth and gestures his other fingers, stroking pleasure inside her and forcing her tongue down to let her voice free. She arches again and gives in, sighing noisily.

“Yeah, that’s it baby, c’mon,” he kisses up her jaw, nuzzling by her ear. “Is it good?”

She sighs _Yeah_ for him, her hands on his back and neck, fingers unconsciously echoing his actions. He keeps stroking, feeling her body roll with each pass, and watches how her eyelashes press down, the drawn shape of her jaw as she lets him in. He shifts himself in preparation, moves his hips away a little, and encourages her on. “Am I deep enough?” he says it firmly, by her ear. “I’m _inside_ you, Y/N. It feels like I belong here.”

Y/N keens at his words, thinking _Yes, here_ , and he tilts his elbow lower. She’s trying not to bite down on his thumb. He lays his tongue up the shell of her ear, tickling with his breath and lips as he collects it, holds it loose in his teeth, tickling the hairline and she whimpers at all the sensations.

Sliding down, he takes a nipple into his mouth and as he grazes the tip again he thumbs across her clit, almost losing his mouthful when she jolts in response.

Dean pulls his thumb from her teeth, stroking her tongue, runs the saturated pad over her lips and kisses her when she kisses him. Adjusting himself again, he slides his palm under her neck and takes hold at the base of her head, firmly and slowly tilting it back and pulling her long. Her sighs evolve into aching pleas and before she has a chance to settle he angles his elbow again, pushing knuckles against her threshold and flicking his thumb back and forth.

Y/N thrashes backwards and gasps, clutching desperately, leaving pink lines on his skin.

“That good Baby?” he asks from under her breast, his body almost perpendicular to hers.

“Yeh-! Dea-!” She’s gasping, bowing against him helplessly.  “Plea-se!”

“Let me know gorgeous. I wanna-”

“ _AAh-ha! **Dean!**_  C’mon, please!” she begs breathlessly.  “Please, babe…”

Dean pumps his fingers, pushing strongly enough to rock her hips, brushing her nerves on each plunge, and gets his face down there.  He lets go of her neck, drags his palm down her spine and lifts her chest a little, which makes her head fall back.  So when he latches onto her clit, a generous mouthful that near drinks her up, and flicks with his tongue, her voice hits the wall and breaks.  Dean feels her inner thighs start to shake against his forearm, and winces at the biting grip she has on his back.  He sits up a little and watches her silver & grey form get lost in pleasure, her lithe neck, sweet breasts and trusting limbs, takes a good hard look at the woman drowning in his arms, around his fingers, and smiles when he thinks of how many other places he might get to see her like this.

* * *

By the time she realises her eyes are open, Y/N remembers why she can’t well move. Dean’s slung his thigh over one of hers, nudging her other leg aside, and his heavy arm rests on her ribs. She turns her head to the left, getting a facefull of warm breath, and tries adjusting his weight across her breasts. In the recently-new apartment, Dean’s the thing that looks most familiar, something she’s brought along.

“You take forever to wake up,” he mumbles. All of him shifts and pulls her tight. He’s the perfect temperature and dizzingly large and heavy. Slowly he slips his hand under her shoulder, down to her hips, and turns her toward him. They lay side by side, face to face, and he pushes his thigh up under hers, sliding the hairy muscle along the crease of her groin.

Y/N watches his eyes open, eyelashes untangling.  It’s like what she remembered, so much so it replaces that thumbnail instantly.  She hopes everything from here on will eclipse all that.  They’re nice stories, she doesn’t want them lost, but she’s so looking forward to images in ink, not pencil.

“Think you can wake up into dreams?” she rasps with her morning-after voice.

Dean’s smile is knowing and easy.  “Stranger things,” he says and presses his lips to hers.  He leans back to watch his fingers brush over her eyebrow and cheek, knuckles grazing her jawline.  She can tell he has a thought.

“Why did you fight me this time?” he asks, low and gentle. 

Being in bed with such a timbre makes her tingle and shift.  “Evidence,” she says. “And hope.”

He thinks a moment.  “…What happened to ‘honour and obey’?”

“Oh no,” she groans. “Is this going to be a real issue? You want someone obedient?”

“Not really,” he defends lazily, “it’s just you said that was your reason to not argue the first time. Where’d that go?”

She shrugs a bit and traces his tattoo. “Doing that felt like we were still together, in some way.  And I think I hoped you’d reward me for obeying you.  Which I suppose you did… but this time, I was honouring us.”

Dean gives the tiniest flinch, just in the eyes, but smiles and squeezes, a deep, proud breath following.  “I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to do,” he warns. “Once you’re in, you don’t get out.”

She smiles at Dean, waiting for him to realise. “Yeah… I noticed.”

* * *

Over the next weekend, Y/N’s suitcases are in a spare room at the bunker because there’s no room in Dean’s drawers.  The rest of her stuff is at a charity connected to Luke’s fire station, ready to help refurbish a family who’s lost too much.  

For about 10 minutes she looks sideways at a complete flip out over having moved in with someone.  Her first thought, upon entering the bunker, is that it has nearly no natural light, and looks purpose built for war-themed needs.  It makes her sad for their dream house - bright and white, busy with love - let alone a regular apartment.  It feels like an indicator of the depth of her shit.  But Dean keeps chatting through the whole thing and tries to keep a hand on her when he can, remind her it’s not a new dream.

“Is Sam really okay with me staying here?” she asks, sitting on the bed.

Dean drops down beside her. “When I stayed at your place, his first text that morning was _So when are you two coming back?_ ”

She smiles at the idea, and Dean adds “He says we’ve got good chemistry. That I’m better around you.”

“Because of our chemistry?” she repeats.

“Well, he said it’s like I go through a chemical change… or something,” he thinks and she’d roll her eyes if he wasn’t gathering her legs up to lay them over his.  “They’re irreversible you know, chemical changes.”

She wraps an arm around his shoulder as he slides her to sit on his lap.  “Uh, sometimes.  Sometimes you can undo chemical changes.  You’re thinking of changes made with heat.”

He slides a broad hand up her back and says slowly “Yes… I am thinking of changes made with heat.”

Y/N cups his jaw and breathes in his gaze and Dean’s hands squeeze all over, taking in her soft and hard curves, her presence. This, this is what they’ve both been looking forward to: Smiling and kissing and trying not to laugh, close for each other and unhurried, shyness receding and intimacy recreated, in a place they both belong.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N. Librarian, nurse, project manager, hero co-ordinator.

It wasn’t that hard to find but you’re not sure you’ll find your way back.  

You stand at the entrance to the bunker kitchen and take a moment.  It’s nice, clean… utilitarian.  A few chairs with backs wouldn’t go astray.  That’s when you see the three folders on the table.  Tomes really. 

You and Dean got back so late last night, you haven’t actually seen Sam since Dean blew you off in the alley.  You’re not sleeping in because you don’t want Sam to think you’re a mooch, and from the bottle of electrolytes waiting by the fruit, you feel like that was a good hunch.  But if you start snooping through things that aren’t yours on your first day…

_Men of Letters - stamus contra malum - Vol.1  Facility_

You open the top binder to find sections dedicated to different rooms, blueprints, diagrams…

 _Vol. 2 Procedures_ is sorted into emergency protocol, both familiar and unusual, and without thinking you sit down to look through the meticulous instructions.  There’s a third book - _Hoggart’s Guide to Spiritually Utilised Structures_ \- which makes you frown.  

Then you discover a note partially tucked beneath it.  In Sam’s print it says “Vol.2 - shut down/ restart, fire safety, devil’s trap/warding sigils.” And beneath that a short checklist: exorcism, vehicle, tattoo.

Suddenly Sam’s there, large and still puffing a little, covered in sweat and looking at you.

“Sorry!” you stand, unsure of yourself.  “Hi! Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” you gesture at the disturbed homework.

“No-no, it’s fine,” he assures.  He heads for the energy drink he put aside earlier, grabs a banana.  “You’ll see it all anyway.  I mean, it’s for you.”

You shift the note and ask “What’s this about a tattoo?”

Sam pulls his singlet top and flashes the symbol on his chest, identical to Dean’s saying “Protects from possession.”  You nod in comprehension, chew your lip at the thought.  

You look at his note some more, think of the little list he wrote for Dean still tucked away in your wallet.  You can feel dimples working their way into your cheeks because you’re thinking back to your first conversation with him, how determined he was to hear you acknowledge the way things really were, and how prepared he is today, how it is you’re with Dean because of him.

Your eyes end up looking his way and he’s watching you, half a smile growing, an understanding growing too.  He turns and starts cutting up an orange for himself.

Dean shuffles in mumbling “Hey, you let me sleep,” and kisses the side of your head, sliding a hand down your back.  Then he sees the manuals and book.  “What the fu- _uh!”_

You smack him in the belly, frowning significantly, and he pulls himself in.  With a deep breath, and a private smile to Dean, you say “Sam, how about I make some muffins while you get cleaned up, and then you can show me around?”

Dean frowns at you sadly, obviously expecting to do the grand tour.  

Sam doesn’t see it though. “Yeah, muffins would be awesome!  So I’s thinking we would start with the library, the war room and the med room,” Sam reels off his plans, walking toward you.  Dean’s hand on your back slips to your hip and squeezes.  “But there are a few rooms that I think should wait till you’ve read a few things, learned a bit of Latin.”

“Seriously?” Dean asks.  “Latin first?”

“When was the last time you went into the Acquisition room without a Hail Mary?”

“Fair point.”

“I’m gonna go get cleaned up.  Back here in 30?” Sam suggests.

“Yeah, soon as the muffins come out,” you grin.  “Hey, is this place actually haunted?” You ask, tapping the Hoggart’s guide.

“Uh, we don’t _think_ so,” Sam says carefully and flashes an enthusiastic grin before disappearing out the door.

* * *

#### A few weeks later…

“Y/N!!”

At a library table you hear Dean call you urgently.  You stand, instantly wired for action, and call him back.  “In the Library!”

“I got a cut!” He yells so loud you’re not sure which direction he’s coming from, but you hear fast footsteps so it can’t be that bad.

“Meet me in the med room!” you holler back, chair barking against the floor as you dash to get things ready.

As you flip open the cupboards and pull out the bare minimum, you’re quietly pleased with yourself for rearranging things at your height, ready to go.  You hear Dean sit on the articulated chair behind you and roll the little metal trolley around, all kitted up.  You slip on your gloves and find him holding one hand in the other.

“What- _Dean!”_ You stand straight again, hands limp on your wrists.  “That’s nothing!”

“No it’s not!  C’mon! Practise on me!”  He’s waving his ‘injured’ hand around, a centimetre long cut on the heel of his thumb, a blot of blood around it.

“Jesus Christ! The stitch’d do more damage than what’s there!”

“No, come on, you’ve run out of space on all the oranges.  Practise on proper skin-”

“Fucking hell-” you mutter and turn to find a butterfly strip and a covering plaster, a nice quick step thanks to your freshly organised cupboard.  And yet, when you turn back, Dean’s got a swab on his wrist, soaking up the blood running from what’s now a sizeably longer cut, bloodied scissors beside him on the chair.  

“What the fuck?!  You little shit!”

“There you go! Four stitches,” he beams, “at least!”

“Lay the fuck down!” you order, and for a moment his grin falters.

“Lay-”

“Lay down and look at the light!”

“Wha- Why the light?” he asks, leaning back onto what feels like a shallow tray of regret.

You shove his shoulder down and roughly arrange his bleeding hand, muttering “Something bright and shiny to occupy your feeble mind for a few seconds.   _Don’t_ fucking move.”

Dean wisely bites his tongue and lets you get started.  One stitch in and you pause to look up at him, still churning with disapproval and annoyance.  His eyebrows slowly rise as he watches you glare him out, waiting to see if you’ll say anything.  But you don’t, just shake your head and get back to work, mouth set in a grim line.  

Dean doesn’t remember what it was like to get in trouble with his parents, but he suspects it would’ve felt something like this.  

Around the third stitch, there are a few moments when you nearly burst into giggles that he thought of you when he nicked himself, imagining the thought dawning on him at the sight of blood.  Sometimes during the fourth stitch, the feeling coldly drops away because you realise how happily he’s hurt himself for you.  

Being thoroughly shitty at Dean’s absurdity is strangely focusing: You don’t think about the stitches at all, and yet they appear neat and even, each one.  You clean and patch and pull off your gloves while you think of the stone in your gut slowly turning on itself; you can’t yet explain the feeling.

Dean goes to comment on your work and you cut him off with “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

You take the trolley to the sink to clean the equipment and, after a few seconds, Dean sensibly leaves you to it.

Part of you aches, because in a previous life you’d never have sent him away without resolving the problem, and he’d never have retreated like that.  But these early weeks have been a weave of contrasting elements.  He’s entirely familiar, and then aspects of his life will shock you, revealing a new side of him and leave you feeling innocent; and you’re a kind of home to him, except when you do something new and he doesn’t know if it’s because of being here or because of him or what.

Over the next half hour, you write and rewrite the script in your mind, full of admonishing comments and reprimand for what he did.  Of course, when you actually see him next, checking the equipment in his car, it all dissolves away.

He sees you coming, recognises your mood and closes the trunk.  You walk straight up to his chest and slide your hands around him. He looks at you, trying to see whatever it is that’s made you so upset, but you bury your face in his shoulder.  

“You mustn’t hurt yourself for me.”

Dean’s hands press you to him and he slides them across your back, settling into a full hug with a deep breath and his mouth resting on your head.  

“I’ve had to cut my hands a lot in the past,” he says quietly.  “It’s really not a big deal.”

“You cut yourself so I could practise stitches,” you pull back to look at him, keeping your voice quiet even as your tone matches your feeling.  “As if I won’t get practise in the future!”

He kisses your forehead, sways a little and mumbles against your skin.  “Yeah… got a little excited there.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself for me.  That you won’t let yourself get hurt for me.”

He pauses all over and instantly you feel foolish for asking, once again reminded of the chasm full of things you don’t know.

“I can’t promise that baby,” he kisses your head again, “but I’ll do my best to stick around.”

A few times now you’ve felt an image, something like a calendar cut short, days stopping at the gate, as though any of these weeks may be his last, and it makes your skin pull tight all over, gets a cold get into your ears and neck.  It comes again now and you close your eyes, relax your jaw, and say a better sentence to yourself about the fact that you must get used to this, that you cannot cling to edges like this, that it will run you into the ground.  That one day you will have to let go, and you will still be okay…

You pull his face down to kiss you, and he does, with everything, and you keep doing that till you feel better.

* * *

#### 4 months in…

Sam’s name appears on your phone and you answer as quickly as you can.  There’s the Impala’s engine, a cavernous rumble, and no answer to your Hello.  “Sam?  You there?” you repeat and head for the med room as you listen, thinking maybe you caught a grunt.

You hear coughing, Sam’s you think and yell  “I’m getting supplies, Sam.  Meet you in the garage?”

“Yeah,” he manages.  “In 30.”

Half an hour is enough to go all out, so by the time they’re home you’ve virtually a makeshift med room beside the car space.

Dean’s laying on the backseat.  You push his shirts up to inspect his torso.  The short cuts aren’t deep and seem to be from almost-blunt hits; some packing and tape slapped on will be enough for the moment.  You dive your hands under him and feel his back for wetness or tears but there’s nothing, and nothing leaking onto the leather around.  He has a massive shiner and an egg on his temple, his face covered in blood and small cuts.  “He seems stable,” you tell Sam, feeling silly for using words like ‘stable’ during amateur hour, and put some small cold packs on his swollen features.

“I’m cut.”  Sam’s leaning on the car and when you pull yourself out you’re almost angry he isn’t laying on the cot already.

You lead him over and help him down and he makes little noises all the way.  The blood has seeped into his jeans, down his right side and you collect all the materials you can think of for a decent gash.

When he eases his hand away, fresh blood oozes but it doesn’t run.  “Can you breathe okay? Have you coughed up any blood?”

“No coughing blood, I’m not sure if it got the lung.  It’s just…” he wheezes a little.  You can tell it hurts to take a decent breath.  “There’s nothing else, I’m just concussed.”

“That is something else, Sam,” you tell him and hook a hand under his shoulder to lift and shove a pillow beneath him.  “Just a quick peek,” you say and hazard moving the flesh, ignoring his sharp groans, trying to detect the depth of the cut, but it doesn’t give much so you trust it’s only rib-deep if anything. You get to work, cleaning and prepping, stitching and covering, hoping you’re remembering all your learning.

Once you’re done, Sam’s looking okay - not shaking, reasonably relaxed - that’s when you notice just how beat up he is elsewhere, even though nothing’s broken the skin. 

You see to Dean’s cuts while he still lays in the Impala, cleaning his wounds as carefully as you can.  You leave him there, tucked under a blanket with a kiss, and grab another for yourself before turning off the garage light, leaving the corridor light on, and curling up on the front seat.

At some morning hour, you check on Dean again - everything’s changed colour a little - and go to Sam.  He opens his eyes as you lift his shirt to see the bandage.

“You were great,” he rasps.  “The cot’s a great idea,” and smiles at you, big as he can.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, better than I thought I’d be,” you say.  “But you get one of these for bringing you both back alive,” you tell him, and lean over a generous kiss on one cheek, your hand on the other.  He breaks into a dimpled smile and takes a moment to enjoy having someone else around to fuss over him.  You help him up and he takes himself off to change and rest.

“Sweetheart… Dean, baby, time to wake up.”  You stroke his hair and squeeze his fingers, then his arm.  He groans awake and blinks his good eye at you.  You thought this would be when you’d burst into tears, seeing him so beat up and trying to use his face and hide his pain from you.  But instead he breaks into a huge smile, looking up at you and thuds a loose palm on your jaw.  

“Baby,” he croaks.  “Hey.”

“Hey gorgeous boy,” you say.  It’s the least gorgeous you’ve ever seen him.

“Sammy okay?”

“Except for the gash on his ribs, he’s actually better than you,” you smile.

“‘At’s my girl,” he grins, splitting his lip again.  He pulls you down to kiss your cheek, trying to use the dry part of his mouth.  “‘At’s my awesome girl.”

* * *

#### Some months after that…

“It’s like a backwards J with a downwards arrow through the hook,” Luke whispers.

“Okay, this probably needs to be in person, so repeat after me, _verbatim_.  Word for word.”

“I know what verbatim means, Y/N-”

“Ank sey-pem-” you speak steadily and wait for Luke to repeat the syllables back.

“Shit, it’s glowing,” he breathes.  “Fuck.”

“…Still glowing?”

“No.”

“Okay, go slowly, quietly as you can.”

Luke turns off the light on his phone and slips it into his pocket, leaving the call live.  You’ve been walking him through this since he left the car.  He tries the doorknob and finds it quiet and easy.  Baseball bat at the ready, he creeps in and glances around the space, thinking to look for clothing and curves between all the hard lines and wood, trying to judge gaps that might hide a person. 

Then, at the opposite end of the room, he sees Dean hanging from the roof, cuffed wrists long and tight.  It galvanises him and he creeps as surely as he can, feeling more and more vulnerable as he moves through the room, shadows and cavities soon behind him and unchecked.  

By the time he’s within a few yards of Dean though he’s feeling confident that no one else is there.  No one else _should_ be there, according to your information, and he gently searches Dean’s pockets for a key, casting glances around the room still.  

He gets a strong hold around Dean’s ribs, lifts him to slacken the chain and struggles to unlock the cuffs as quickly as he can.  He catches the sweet spot in the lock and Dean drops onto him, draped backwards over Luke’s shoulder.  Luke lowers them both to the floor and checks his vitals, pats his cheek. He tugs at his phone, freeing it from the pocket to talk to you again.

“He’s out. Warm but limp.  I’m taking him back to the car.”

“Wait! Hold the phone up to his ear,” you say and wait a few seconds for Luke to do so.  You recite the phrase you found, diligently running your finger under the words, and wait.  A few more seconds pass and you hear Luke saying “Hey… hey Dean, you okay?”

“Dean?” you say, evenly as you can manage.  “Dean? Is that you?”  There’s a familiar groan and you rub your own throat in hope.  You hear him move his mouth around to feel normal, grunt a bit, and shuffle. “Uuuh, Jesus…  you have no idea how weird it is to hear your voice and see his face.”

“Dean, Sam is behind the house somewhere.  They’re preparing some sort of ritual and he’s alone. Are you good enough to fight?”

“Yeah,” he’s near full strength as quickly as possible.  “Does he have the knife still?”

“In theory,” you figure, talking over the noise of them heading down stairs.  “I know he fought in the kitchen, told me he was headed out the back so follow that path to check.  Watch out for more coming - I think the ritual needed five at least, and you’ve got three remaining. Call me when you’re done.”

“We’re gonna talk about Luke after, you realise,” Dean warns, stepping over a fallen villain.

“Of course! You’re gonna love it,” you stir.  “Take care!”

“You too,” Dean hangs up, returns the phone to Luke and talks as he’s scanning the kitchen floor for dropped weapons, blood, anything.  “Okay man, you stay here, or at the car-”

“Wait in the car?” Luke baulks. “You serious?”

“Luke? They’re _not people,”_ Dean glares at him.  “You’ve got two boys.”

Luke takes a moment and reluctantly nods, taking hold of the bench in resignation.  

Dean crosses the kitchen in two short strides, finds a laundry tucked behind the pantry.  “Hide in here till I come get you.”  

Luke makes his way into the small space while Dean disappears out the back door.

Ten seconds later, Luke hears shouting, words cut off. He stares out the window into the dark forest behind the house and soon gives in to his instinct to help.  He moves quietly, bat ready, and gets himself outside and through the messy backyard, hedging at each corner, sheltering at every chance, and really and truly meaning to stay out of it if he can.

What he comes upon is a proper fight, Sam and Dean doing their best with three bad guys, Dean saving the biggest one for himself.  In the darkness, Luke can see markings on the ground, totemic items arranged around their feet, a bowl of dark liquid.

A weapon flashes in Sam’s hand, and when it’s knocked from his grasp Luke can tell he’s stuck - seems it’s the only weapon he has.  Still, Luke doesn’t budge.  It’s been awhile since he fought and although he feels confident he can move quickly and with strength, strategy isn’t a skill he’s really got.  He keeps imagining how it might go wrong.  

When Sam dives for the blade and rolls away from the site, both fights change with the greater space.  Dean is starting to make more noise, the struggle getting low at times, using trees, and if it weren’t for being amongst forest, Sam would’ve been cornered already.  

Unknowingly, Sam draws his foes around so that the demons’ backs are to Luke, and Luke sees his window. He comes out of the shadow to home-run the nearest guy, knocking him to the ground, then drops the bat and snatches the one closer to Sam, hooking his elbows back to expose his chest.  Sam finds the blade and lunges to stab the demon, then swings back to stab the other as it rounds in on him.  It’s a close call, almost an embrace, and Sam stumbles under the weight.  Luke watches the victim drop to the ground, his face flickering with internal fire, and misses Sam throwing himself on Dean’s target, stabbing him too.  The brothers roll apart and puff at the sky.

No one speaks.  Luke looks at the bodies, thinking of how different this is to the rescues he’s used to.  He pulls out his phone and calls you.

You answer straight away “Luke?!”

“We’re fine-”

“Oh holy shit!” you puff, rocking in relief at the other end of the line.  “When you called and not Dean- Holy shit.  Are they okay?”

“I think so,” he says, watching them getting up.  Dean’s waving Luke over for the phone.

“Okay, if there’s something with blood in it, a bowl or whatever, tip it out and get out of there.”

“Hey babe,” Dean puffs.

“Dean you need to leave, there might be more-”

“There’s no one coming,” he blows it off.

“Could you just get the hell out of there please and call me when you’re in the car?” you bite, almost dissolving from anxiety over these close calls.

“Y/N, we can see if someone’s coming and-”

“Seriously, Dean, this week has been a goddamn tester.  Fucking _humour me_.  Take Luke and get out of there.”

“Hokay babe,” Dean sighs and takes Luke’s offered hand, hauling himself to stand.  “Call you back.”

“We need to leave,” Sam tells him.  He’s already tipped out the bowl and starts to walk away.  “There might be more-”

“Yeah, I got it.  You good to go?” he asks Luke.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Luke replies.  He grabs his bat and follows their lead.  They jog back to the cars, Dean going with Luke to follow Sam in the Impala, and head off to a diner in town.

They drop themselves into a corner booth, Sam and Dean facing their temporary hero.  It’s busy enough to provide some sort of crowd-cover and Dean calls you back as soon as his elbows hit the table.

“Hey, where are you?”

“A diner.  You okay?” Dean checks, putting you on speaker.

“Is Luke okay?”

“I’m fine, all good,” Luke says, although he’s as shaky as any of his closest calls with the fire boys.  They’re interrupted for a minute with the waitress taking an order, everyone waiting until she goes.

Dean takes a bit of a breath and begins “Now, no offence Luke, it’s nice to see you but Y/N-

“Okay. _No_.”

“Y/N, you can’t just-”

“You know what?  This has been a _week_ , Dean.  A fucking fuck-off week.  But let me tell you what I know-” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, summoning patience and tact, “-You had blood taken for a ritual to call or create something to blackmail _you especially,_ and Sam said you were trapped. And there were four of them. And both rituals I found asked for 5 people at least.  So you’re stuck somewhere, trapped enough to be trapped, which for you probably means you’re quite fucked, and Sam’s there with him and his own two hands, in the dark, with more coming and he has to leave you to stop the ritual.  And you guys happen to be on the other side of town to our good friend, the big brave fire-fighter Luke, and are you fucking kidding me?  Don’t question my judgement when I have to help by remote!”

“Y/N, it’s just that-”

“I didn’t induct him into the life, Dean. He’s used to danger, he can handle himself, and he’s goddamn bright enough to follow instructions and get you out of a spell-bound room.”

“Right, okay, but-”

_“By the way-”_

“Oooshit-” Dean rests his forehead in his palm.  

“The power failed and then the _backup_ generator failed.  I fixed it, with some research, but the washing machine leaked everywhere when the power restarted. _I don’t know why._ And then something fucking flipped out in the Acquisition room-”

“What kind of thing?” Sam asks.

“Some creepy fuck-off thing that moaned at me-”

“Baby could you tone down the swearing a bit? We’re in a d-”

“EVERY FUDGING TIME I went near that corridor.  It kept saying something in Latin, which I won’t repeat because I’m not sure what that’ll do, but it I dug it up and used an anti-fertility, blocky-locky-type spell on the door. Don’t fucking ask me about that. So now the door is all messy and salted and-”

“Wait,” Sam remembers something, “an anti-fertility type spell?”

“Man, if she said don’t ask her about it,” Dean mutters, “you don’t wanna know.”

“It was chanting something about calling for a vessel to gestate it’s ward,” you state and wait for Sam to comprehend.  “Think it detected my feminine fragrances.”

“Were you… uh…” Sam has a hunch he knows which spell that is and doesn’t know how to broach this point delicately.  “Were you able to get all the ingredients you needed?”

“…Yes,” you say reluctantly.  “I jumped to my white pills and bought a _goddamn mooncup_.”  Sam draws his lower lip across his teeth, sucking in awkwardness, and Dean closes his eyes real hard. “So Dean, when I make an executive decision to call in help to save your ass… try trusting my judgement okay?”

Luke mouths _What’s a mooncup?_ at Sam, who frowns and shakes his head, indicating he’ll tell him later.

Dean’s got his head hung between his shoulders, rubbing a palm up and down his hair.  “I love you,” he says.

Sam and Luke flick glances at each other and Dean.

“What?” you peep.

“Just reminding myself,” Dean sighs.  “I love you, you’re doing a great job.  Just… having a non-hunter around…”

“I know,” you sigh down the phone.  “I’m sorry.  There was no one else.  I couldn’t leave Sam to do it on his own.”

Dean leans his head on his palm, and looks at his brother, all _Well waddya gunna do_.

“Luke worked out, right Sam?” you check.

“Yeah,” he tells you.  “Luke was awesome, saved my ass before we met… Wait, hang on… If you’re Luke,” he points at Luke, and then at Dean, “then you must be Dawn.”

Dean’s eyes bulge and glare, and Luke covers his mouth with a fist. Seconds pass.

Your voice chirps from the phone.  “I love you too… baby.”

Dean clears his throat and leans forward, pushes himself into his seat, rests an elbow to scratch his head…. “How long you been sittin’ on that?”

“Oh, a _while_ ,” Sam grins.

The burgers arrive and they all lean back for the plates, Sam still grinning at Luke, who’s trying to keep it all inside for Dean.  

Dean snatches up the phone and mumbles privately, “You didn’t tell me you told him that.”

“It was in the days when I wasn’t sure he liked me.  Worth it’s weight, though.”

“Fickle, treacherous wench…” he’s pretty sure he can hear you smiling.  “Did you really use that blood on the door?”

“Yeah, and it worked,” you say, “but I don’t know what’s next.”

“Ugh, so gross… Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I dunno… You didn’t answer the call, and by then I’d figured it out.  And yes, hella gross.  Almost did it in puke and sweat.”

Dean presses the phone to his ear wishing he could be there with you.  He can imagine how freaky it must’ve been to hear voices coming from that room, to be by yourself and having to guess and try things out right there on the door, while he and Sam had been unable to actually talk, probably not wanting to burden him, and then to have crap like power outages and an impromptu period… “Bet you’ve been PMSing like a witch.”

“Super appropriate, to be honest,” you groan.  “But you’ll be back in a few days.  And we’ll figure it out.”

Dean slides down into his seat and tucks an arm across his chest.  He looks at his burger, half listening to Sam tell Luke about you settling in, learning Latin, the Halloweenish month of sutured oranges.

“We’ll be back late tomorrow,” Dean assures.

“We’re holing up at Luke’s tonight,” Sam nudges him.

“That’s good,” you overhear.  “You gonna be okay Dawnie?”

Luke and Sam are getting along so well that he can’t seem keep up the gruff.  “Can I call you later?”

“Always. Anytime.”

“Alright, I’ll catch you up when we’re settled at Luke’s.”

“Okay,” you say and rock yourself a little, asking “Hey, were you joking?  Did you mean it?”

Dean sits up and turns his plate a bit, pretending the guys aren’t listening in. “'Course I meant it.  For a long time… You’re my sun.”

You grin, hard enough to hurt your cheeks, pop your feet up and down.  You didn’t think he still thought about that stuff.  “Talk to you soon gorgeous boy.”  Dean smiles back.  “And hey, I’m proud of you.  You’re so impressive at this, both of you.”

Dean closes his eyes and takes another thankful breath. “You too sweetheart.  Love being saved by you.  Every day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some lovely feedback on this story. It feels like a fairly epic effort, just to read the whole thing! So thank you for making it to the end, and rolling with the prologue/flashback things. Cheers :)


End file.
